The Champion of Cram.

Air — "The Duke of Plaza-Toro," from "The Gondoliers."

Solo—
I.
In every sort
Of game or sport,
With any chance of a cropper,
He always thought
He didn't ought,—
It might not be quite proper.
But at a garden party feed,
You'd find him near the jam, O,—
That parasitic,
And enclitic,
Oft toxitic
Noxious weed,
The Champion of Cram, O!

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Chorus.
And him you can't escape, ha, ha!
He'll beat you at the tape, ha, ha!
That soporific,
Swot-specific,
And prolific
Noxious weed,
The Champion of Cram, O!

II.
You'll find his face
In every place
(Like the Asiatic canker);
John Brown can trace
Their growth apace
Up here at Salamanca,
And though they are of all degrees,
All Worship Saint Exam, O,—
Those archive-raking,
Record-breaking
(Putty-making)
Working bees,
The Champions of Cram, O!

Chorus.
And in their larger sanity
They learn to shun urbanity,—
Those never-tired,
Much admired,
Uninspired
Working bees,
The Champions of Cram, O!

III.
O, sport's a bore,
And, what is more,
It's energy misdirected;
And youth should pore,
With bolted door,
O'er Latin prose selected.
For all cribs used and swot undone,
We'll in the end "stand Sam," O,—
That prof-placating,
Ingratiating,
Satiating
Paragon,
The Champion of Cram, O!

Chorus.
We never venture to inquire
Why he won't set the Thames on fire,—
That durance-blessing,
Prepossessing,
And distressing,
Paragon,
The Champion of Cram, O!

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