Classic Poem

Near-neighboured by a blandly boisterous Dean
Who " hasn't missed the Match since '92,"
Proposing to perpetuate the scene
I concentrate my eyesight on the cricket
The game proceeds, as it is bound to do
Till tea-time or the fall of the next wicket.

Agreeable sunshine fosters greensward greener
Than College lawns in June. Tradition-true,
The stalwart teams, capped with contrasted blue,
Exert their skill; adorning the arena
With modest, manly, muscular demeanour, —
Reviving memories in ex-athletes who
Are superannuated from agility, —
And (while the five-ounce fetish they pursue)
Admired by gloved and virginal gentility.

My intellectual feet approach this function
With tolerance and Public-School compunction;
Aware that, whichsoever side bats best,
Their partisans are equally well-dressed.
For, though the Government has gone vermilion
And, as a whole, is weak in Greek and Latin,
The fogies harboured by the august Pavilion
Sit strangely similar to those who sat in
That edifice when first the Dean went pious, —
For possible preferment sacrificed
His hedonistic and patrician bias,
And offered his complacency to Christ.
Meanwhile some Cantab slogs a fast half-volley
Against the ropes. " Good shot, sir! O good shot!"
Ejaculates the Dean in accents jolly . . .
Will Oxford win? Perhaps. Perhaps they'll not.
Can Cambridge lose? Who knows? One fact seems sure;
That, while the Church approves, Lord's will endure.