On Oxford

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On Oxford

The Gothic looks solemn,

The plain Doric column

Supports an old Bishop and Crozier;

The mouldering arch,

Shaded o’er by a larch,

Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.

Vice,⁠—that is, by turns,⁠—

O’er pale faces mourns

The black tassell’d trencher and common hat;

The charity boy sings,

The Steeple-bell rings

And as for the Chancellor⁠—dominat.

There are plenty of trees,

And plenty of ease,

And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;

And when it is venison,

Short is the benison,⁠—

Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.