t get on, Jim,
While I should make my mark;
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark.

Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure;
Your face is round and red, Jim,
While I look underfed, Jim;
The thing's extremely funny,
And beats me, I am sure,
Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure.

THE GOLF-BALL AND THE LOAN

AFTER LONGFELLOW

I drove a golf-ball into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?

Long, long afterward, in a whin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings are missing still!
They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.

TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the matter.'
Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors. Give us the credit
Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
And we found that our castles were air;
We had decked them with carvings and gildings,
We had filled them with laughter and fun,
But all of a sudden the buildings
Came down with a run.

Not a trace was there left of the carving,
And the gilding had vanished from sight;
But the 'column' for matter was starving,
And we had not to edit--but write.
So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,
If the writing was feeble or dead?
We had started as editors--Thunder!
We were authors instead.

We'd mistaken our calling, election,
Vocation, department, and use;
We had thought that our task was selection,
And we found that we had to produce.
So we sigh for release from our labours,
We pray for a happy despatch,
We will take our last leave of our neighbours,
And then--Colney Hatch.

We are singing this dol