Classic Poem

Tune, Welcome, welcome, Brother Debtor .

Now we're met, my brethren B ENCHERS ,
In this mean unhappy place,
Though so deep our foes entrench us,
We can shew a chearful face.

Though our worldly schemes miscarry,
And our persons are in thrawl ,
We have still FACETIOUS H ARRY
To keep up the jovial ball .

We have Parsons quite light-hearted,
Though by patrons left in lurch,
Who can say that we're deserted;
When with us we've got the Church .

We have merchants, lawyers, sages,
Those who never thought, think here ;
We have captains, prince's pages,
To our C OLLEGE all repair.

We have Jack , who no disaster
Can his careless temper seize;
We have Little Driver 's master,
Who always strives his friends to please.

The young Cantab, from chopping logick ,
Just commenc'd magister art .
Takes his Covent-Garden frolick,
Then comes here to feel the smart .

Mamma with chiding tips a guinea ,
Grieves to see her SPRIG confin'd,
The De — l sure, she says, was in you;
O no, 'twas love , and love is blind .

Here are men of all conditions,
Flashy wits and stupid fools ,
Quacks and regular physicians
Sit on our repentance stools .

Bloods and bucks undone by wenches,
To Dog and Duck with pains repair;
Their youthful fires that Lethe quenches;
No cure is like St. George's air .

Our creditors we've oft petition'd,
For us our weeping friends have met;
Discharge them and be good condition'd ,
But Shylock will have flesh or debt .

When committed first we whimper ,
W RING our hands at fortune's stroke ;
But a bumper makes us simper ,
Fill it up , the G ALL IS BROKE .

The M ARSHAL , if by our behaviour
In his graces we can get,
Loves to shew his prisoners favour,
And by being good is great .

Though we've squander'd our possessions,
M ARSON 's pity here extends,
Scorns to load us with oppressions,
Treats us all like men and friends .

Tapsters here are only surly,
And if chalk'd behind the door,
O what noise and hurly burley ,
Pay we must , or call no more.

This is Falstaff 's field of battle,
Want of cash may strifes create;
M ORRIS will regard no prattle ,
No scoring 's here but on the pate .

What joy to see a pot of porter ,
With nick and froth the bumming beer;
Beyond a girl , in thirst , we court her ,
O what cloth and colour 's here!

Angry fathers , envious brothers ,
Nature's duties here neglect;
Scraping misers make their pothers,
On our conduct all reflect.

But ev'ry man has got his failing ,
Ev'ry class produces fools ,
Vice is through the world prevailing,
Benchers only live by rules .