Classic Poem

At length arrives the dull vacation,
And all around is desolation;
At noon one meets unapron'd cooks,
And leisure gyps with downcast looks
The barber's coat from white is turning,
And blackens by degrees to mourning;
The cobler's hands so clean are grown,
He does not know them for his own;
The sciences neglected snore,
And all our bogs are cobweb'd o'er;
The whores crawl home with limbs infirm
To salivate against the term;
Each coffee-house, left in the lurch,
Is full as empty — as a church —
The widow cleans her unus'd delph,
And's forc'd to read the news herself;
Now boys for bitten apples squabble,
Where geese sophistic us'd to gabble;
Of hoary owls a reverend band
Have at St. Mary's took their stand,
Where each in solemn gibberish howls,
And gentle Athens owns her fowls
To Johnian hogs observe, succeed
Hogs that are real hogs indeed;
And pretty Master Pert of Trinity,
Who in lac'd waistcoat woos Divinity,
Revisits, having doft his gown,
His gay acquaintance in the town:
The barbers, butlers, taylors, panders,
Are press'd and gone to serve in Flanders;
Or to the realms of Ireland sail,
Or else (for cheapness) go to gaol. —
Alone the pensive black-gowns stray
Like ravens on a rainy day
Some saunter on the drowsy dam,
Surrounded by the hum-drum Cam,
Who ever and anon awakes,
And grumbles at the mud he makes,
Oh how much finer than the Mall
At night to traverse thro' Clare-Hall!
And view our nymphs, like beauteous geese,
Cackling and waddling on the Piece;
Or near the gutters, lakes, and ponds
That stagnate round serene St. John's,
Under the trees to take my station,
And envy them their vegetation.