Classic Poem

Lament, lament, ye Scholars all,
Each wear his blackest Gown:
The Mitre that held up your wits,
Is now itself faln down.
The dismal fire of London-Bridge ,
Can move no heart of mine:
For that but o're the water stood,
But this stood o're the wine.
It needs must melt each Christians heart,
That this sad newes but hears.
To think how the poore Hogsheads wept
Good Sack and Claret tears.
The zealous Students of the place
Change of Religion fear,
Lest this mishap may chance bring in
The heresie of Beer.
Unhappy Mitre! I would know
The cause of this sad hap:
Came it by making legs too low
To Pembrook's Cardinals Cap?
Then know thy self and cringe no more,
Since Popery went down,
That Cap must vail to thee, for now
The Mitre's next the Crown.
Or was't, because our company
Did not frequent thy Cell,
As we were wont, to cure these cares:
Thou fox'dst thy self and fell?
No sure, the Devil was adry,
And caus'd a fatal blow;
'Twas he that made the Cellar sink,
That he might drink below.
Yet, though some say, the Devil did it,
'Cause he might drink up all.
I rather think the Pope was drunk,
And let his Mitre fall.
Lament, ye Eaton -conjurers,
Because of your lack of knowledge
To let a tavern fall that stood
On the walls of your own College.
Let the Rose with the Falcon moult,
While Sam enjoys his wishes;
The Dolphin too must cast her Crown:
Wine was not made for Fishes.
That Sign a Tavern best befits
Which shews who loves wine best;
The Mitre's then the only Sign,
For that's the Scholars crest.
Then drink sack Sam , and cheer thy heart:
Be not dismay'd at all;
For we will drink it up again,
Though our selves do catch a fall.
Wee'll be thy workmen day and night,
In spite of bugbear-Proctors,
We drank like fresh-men all before,
But now wee'll drink like doctors.