Classic Poem

Integer vitae

The man that never told a lie,
Or cut a College Chapel,
That lives within his Tutor's eye
And is, in fact, its apple;

Whether by fabled heights of Gog
Or Granta's mazy winding
Upon his customary jog
He goes serenely grinding; —

He little needs (so few his fears,
So equable his liver)
To join the Arquebusiliers
Or even read The Quiver .

For once he chanced to meet a mad
Bull-pup — its legs were bandy;
It scooted from him though he had
No gun or weapon handy.

Nor ever monster like to this
Was versed in sporting matters,
Or issued forth from Callaby's
To romp among the ratters;

And yet it fled with loud alarm,
While he in meditation
Pursued his thoughts upon the charm
Of Conic Osculation.

Place him on ocean's sandy dunes,
Or bunkers of Sahara,
Or where the air is sick with tunes
By Kellie and De Lara,

Plunge him in any haunt of sin —
Roulette or water-polo;
Propriety doth hedge him in,
He simply whispers — Nolo .

The button-hole, the tandem-team,
He counts alike as folly;
Polygonometry's his theme,
I think he calls it " Polly. "

Her angular and winning ways
He hymns like any suitor;
And one of these fine open days
Intends to be a Tutor.