Varsity Mixture.

(By Hazelwood.)

They played him a sonata— let me see:
"Medulla oblongata "—key of G,
Then they began to sing that extremely lovely thing
" Scherzando ma non troppo, p.p.p."

—Gilbert.

Air—" Under the Anheuser Bush."

I.
Talk about the bees as they buzz round a hive,
Nothing to the numbers we turn out alive;
Up at Salamanca one frequently sees
Dozens and dozens of such LL. Bees.
Mauri is the Bumble that sits on the throne,
Dealing out his honey in somnolent drone;
In his flowered language his subjects he tells,
How with success they may fill up the cells.

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Chorus.
Buzz, buzz, hark to the hum of them
Busily flitting about;
Buzz, buzz, what's to become of them
When the whole swarm is let out?
See that you feed them not,
They are a hungry lot. Buzz!
Fees, fees, constitute the food of these
Hundreds of Law Loving Bees.

II.
Have you seen a comet ablaze in the sky?
We've been having one far too bright for the eye;
While it was in sight all the stars seemed to pale,
But, sad to say, it soon waggled its tail.
Heaven guide its course in its fiery descent,
Now it's draughting laws for our Parl-i-a-ment;
This without a doubt soon its fire will quench,
And at the last 'twill descend to the bench.

Chorus.
Past, past, see in the track of it
Victims lie scattered around.
Past, past, now for the lack of it
All is in darkness profound.
Hark to the victims' views,
Strange are the words they use. Hush!
Past, past ever will their wonder last,
Why 'twas they did not pass too.

III.
Rave about the critics of lit'rary fame,
We have got a brace that will put them to shame.
Joynt, the Registrar, and John Rankin, the Prof.,
Judge of the verses on Cures for a Cough.
Shakespeare and his works are alright in their way,
Vergil may have held a high place in his day,
But however great these old poets may be,
They can't compare with H. Pollen, M.D.

Chorus.
John, John, friend of Euripides,
M.A. of Oxford renown!
Joynt, Joynt, who with insipid ease
Make every honour your own!
O, I have such a cold,
Where is the best cure sold? Oh!
John, John I congratulate you on
Being so learned a judge.

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IV.
Rumours are afloat of a College Hotel,
Somewhere for the poor homeless student to dwell,
So that when he comes in to meals a bit late,
He'll not be met by a housewife irate.
There it will be safe for the meekest to dwell,
For it's going" to be a no-license hotel;
There we shall be cared for like chicks by a hen,
Breakfast at seven and lights out at ten.

Boys, boys, no more shinanikin',
Good-bye to revels and sprees;
Milk, boys, milk by the pannikin,
Water as much as you please.
O, it will make of you
Saints of the rarest hue. What ho!
Do, do, come and have a term or two
Up at the College Hotel.