See the freshers in the street,
The elite! 
Their apparel how unquestionably neat! 
How delighted at a distance,
Inexpensively attired,
I have wondered with persistence
At their butterfly existence! 
How admired! 
And the payment—­O, the payment! 
It is tardy for the raiment: 
Yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells,
And he tells,
’This is best
To be dress’d
Rather better than the rest,
To be noticeably drest,
To be swells,
To be swells, swells, swells, swells,
Swells, swells, swells,
To be simply and indisputably swells.’

     See the freshers one or two,
        Just a few,
        Now on view,
     Who are sensibly and innocently new;
     How they cluster, cluster, cluster
     Round the rugged walls of Worcester! 
        See them stand,
        Book in hand,
     In the garden ground of John’s! 
     How they dote upon their Dons! 
        See in every man a Blue! 
        It is true
     They are lamentably few;
        But I spied
     Yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside
        Upon the floor,
     Just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where I reside,
        Lying there and nothing more;
        And I swore
     While these dainty twins continued sentry by the chamber door
     That the hope their presence planted should be with me evermore,
        Should desert me—­nevermore.

THE SAIR STROKE.

     O waly, waly, my bonnie crew
        Gin ye maun bumpit be! 
     And waly, waly, my Stroke sae true,
        Ye leuk unpleasauntlie!

     O hae ye suppit the sad sherrie
        That gars the wind gae soon;
     Or hae ye pud o’ the braw bird’s-e’e,
        Ye be sae stricken doun?

     I hae na suppit the sad sherrie,
        For a’ my heart is sair;
     For Keiller’s still i’ the bonnie Dundee,
        And his is halesome fare.

     But I hae slain our gude Captain,
        That c’uld baith shout and sweer,
     And ither twain put out o’ pain—­
        The Scribe and Treasurere.

     There’s ane lies stark by the meadow-gate,
        And twa by the black, black brig: 
     And waefu’, waefu’, was the fate
        That gar’d them there to lig!

     They waked us soon, they warked us lang,
        Wearily did we greet;
   ‘Should he abrade’ was a’ our sang,
        Our food but butcher’s-meat.

     We hadna train’d but ower a week,
        A week, but barely twa,
     Three sonsie steeds they fared to seek,
        That mightna gar them fa’.

     They ’ve ta’en us ower the lang, lang coorse,
        And wow! but it was wark;
     And ilka coach he sware him hoorse,
        That ilka man s’uld hark.