In Residence

BALLADE OF TRIPOS FEVER O smMuUG! in your desolate room, Whatever’s the matter with you? Your face is a picture of gloom, Your pulse is a hundred and two, Your eyelids are glued as with glue, A towel is tied to your head, You might be a man with the Flu! “The Trip! and I wish I were dead!” O blood! Mighty being ve whom Our novelists say what is true! You swear, and you fuss, and you fume, And the saddest of books—if the view That I catch of your dainty canoe Be accurate—heavy as lead, Are piled as you yawn and say “ Phew! The Trip! and I wish I were dead!” O ordin’ry persons! Who ‘lume Your College (you are but a few)— You seem to consider your doom A natural duty to do.