Not the Sort of Thing We Care About.

"Poins, Poins, these be noisome fellows." — Henry IV.

Tune—" She's not the sort of girl I care about." —Runaway Girl.

We've some people in our College,
Whose excessive love of knowledge
Is a danger to themselves and to the rest.
Though an ardent zeal for learning
We are very far from spurning,
Yet against the selfish student we protest.
For the male or female hermit,
Or the "swat," as you may term it,
Is a neutral type of creature we abhor,
When all outdoor recreations,
With their social obligations,
Are forgotten in the mad pursuit of lore.

Chorus.
Well, it rises with the lark,
And it swats till after dark,
And it never has a moment it can spare, no doubt,
And its talk is all exam.
And the benefit of cram,—
Well I don't think that's the sort of thing we care about.

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Then the type of youthful joker,
Who in high and mighty choker
Has begun his university career,
Might extend the transformation
Of his garb by gravitation
To the limbs that fundamentally appear
Though from school emancipated,
He has not yet graduated
To the dignity of trousered longitude.
And although he be precocious,
Yet his pants are quite atrocious,
And upon æsthetic grounds to be eschewed.

Chorus.
Yes, he wears them in the hall,
And he wears them at the ball,
But there seems to be no prospect of their wearing out.
So until he will discard
Or extend them by a yard
Well, I don't think he's the sort of chap we'll care about.

There's the person whose emphatic
Disregard of democratic
Institutions of the College stamps a snob;
There's the casual professor
And apologetic "messer"
Who through lack of preparation shirks his job.
The superior official,
With omnipotent initial,
By events is proved a most peculiar joint
In creating expectations
After our examinations
Which absurd delays seem doomed to disappoint.

Chorus.
Well, the snob may still proceed
To obtrude on us its creed,
And the prof. his incoherencies to air about,
And the "joint" withhold the fate
Of the anxious candidate;
But I don't think they're the sort of folk we care about.

But the man whose chief endeavour
Is to serve his college ever,
And maintain her pride of place by word and deed,
Who in contest most heroic
Bears disaster like a Stoic,
With a heart that on to victory must lead,
And the girl who's just as "gritty"
In the field or in committee,

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Whose companionship our grosser clay refines,—
These by natural selection
Are the choice of our affection,
And their type the best of all our life enshrines.

Chorus.
So remember from this verse
You are better, you are worse,
In proportion to your share of triumph, share of rout;
When you try to do your best,
Do it so to help the rest,
And I fancy you'll be one of those we care about.