Chorus.

Air — "Huntsmen's Chorus," from "Der Freischutz" (Weber).

When the air's like wine in the sunny weather,
And the breeze blows cobwebs from the brains;
When Latin's folly and Law's a tether,
And the blood goes dancing through the veins,—
Then hey! for the paths where your fancy races
Away from the city's stifling" grip,
To the playing fields and open places—
And let the world of toilers slip!
Then here's to the long white road that beckons,
The climb that baffles, the risk that nerves;
And here's to the merry heart that reckons
The rough with the smooth, and never swerves!
So let the brimming glasses clink
To the best of toasts that a man can drink!

Be it hockey stick, or oval leather,
Or skiff, or racquet, or rod or gun,—
Here's luck! for the sport we've had together,
For chances bungled and battles won;
For the wicket true, and the field in fettle,
And the man who's safe for a tingling catch;
For the losing team that shows its mettle,
And the man who wins his heat from scratch.
Then here's to the sportsman's road that beckons,
The climb that baffles, the risk that nerves;
And here's to the merry heart that reckons
Th rough with the smooth, and never swerves!
So let the brimming glasses clink
To the best of toasts that a man can drink!

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!

page 31

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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Chorus.

Air— "No possible doubt whatever," from "The Gondoliers" —(Sullivan).

But while we bend with the wise and bold,
Let's see that the shrine is shaded
From that wholly detestable sport for gold,
Which sends to the depths all that sweetness old,
The gladness and joy which can't be sold.
May the sweetness ne'er be faded.

A taste for sport combined with gold,
Would double sport up for ever.
Of that there can be no shadow of doubt,
No probable, possible shadow of doubt,
No possible doubt whatever.

We worship now at a nobler fane,
By sward where birch trees rustle.
On the field where they husband the golden grain,
Or altar of gold where they husband brain,
Or out on the turf where they scorn gold-gain,
Let us worship mind and muscle.

Chorus.
So raise a shout for battle stout,
And keenness in life's stern bustle,
And banish any shadow of doubt,
A probable, possible shadow of doubt
In worship of mind and muscle.

Final Chorus.

Air —"The Old Brigade."

Just one stave more and the song is done,
A stave for the olden time;
One age has passed, and the age to come
Is the age of the golden prime!
So praise we men who have passed away
Who hold to a legend bold;
Whatever a sordid world may say,
Wisdom is more than gold.

Chorus.
So when we are singing of College,
Singing the songs of old,
Think of the past,
Hold to the last,
That it's wisdom that's more than gold!

For this is the burden of the world,
Which it speaketh day by day
Though many a worldly lip be curled
With a sneer that it does not pay:
In our ears is the voice of a Mammon age,
In our hearts is a tale that's old,
The tale of our garnered heritage—
The wisdom that's more than gold!