Finale Act I: The Feast Song.

Air— "Come to the Ball."

Lay out the roses and wine,
Oak leaves and purple entwine,
There will big feasting and drinking deep,
Far into daylight the wassail keep.
Briton and Roman recline,
Pledge we the sweets of the vine,
Let there be hearty accord,

While we dine bis.).

Pledge we our regal mistress at home,
Pledge we the Eagle, Cæsar of Rome.
They owe a duty, let them unite,
She in her beauty, he in his might;
We will be loyal unto them both.
Let there be royal plighting of troth,
Queenly and fair, Cæsar benign,
Hark to our prayer, aud take her for thine.
Pledge we their troths its we dine,
And at the nuptials define,
A racial boundary line,
Julius Cæsar and Boadicea,
Bordering both on a Strata via,
See how their head! they incline,
Yes, they are willing to sign,
National union's assured,

While we dine (bis.).

"Soft words with nothing in them make a song." — Waller.

The Song of Victoria College.

Aedem colimus Minervae
Acti desiderio
Artes nosse liberales
Hoc in Hemispherio
Aedem colimus Musarum.
Sub Australi sidere;
Nos a Musis maria longa
Nequeunt dividere.

Studiosi, studiosae
Captant sapientiam;
Circa venti turbulenti
Auferunt desidiam.
Omnium Collegiorum
Surgit hoc novissimum;
Ergo vires iuveniles
Exhibent fortissimum.

Nomen quod profert sodales
Fausto sit oraculo;
Ut Deus regno reginae
Faveat curriculo.
Per vias laboriosas
Doctrinarum omnium
Docti ducunt professores
Obsequens servitium.

Corpus sanum ne sit absens
Properamus ludere
Subter iugum occupantes
Fuste pilam trudere
Oratores, Oratrices
Audias effundere
Voces dignas Cicerone
Et sellas pertundere.

Chorus.
O! Victoria, sempiterna
Sit tibi felicitas
Alma mater, peramata
Per aetates maneas.

Farewell to David K.

"To be great is to be misunderstood" —Emerson.

Air: "Thuringian Polk Song (Australian Students' Song Book, page 274.)

By "Candida."

Softly the bagpipes play
Some sentimental lay;
Listen, dear David K.,
They play for you.
Hark, how the heathen rage!
Facts rule this iron age,
Fancy is off the stage,
And so adieu.

Heed not the empty blast
Puffed out by shrill von Haast,
We know that pearls are cast
Oft in the sties.
If you had been a clown,
Or like MacMillan Brown,
You might have won renown
Great in his eyes.

If, like the men who preach,
You had but stooped to teach
Stuff that could easily reach
Children of one:
If you had sold your soul,
So that your Honours' roll
Always had topped the poll,
You would have done.

Stout would have stroked your fur,
Haast would have made you purr,
Maths! Ah, but what of her?
Has she no due?
Now let them hire a hack
Who will have all you lack;
But ere you take the track,
Here's ours to you!

"A thing of custom; 'tis no other."

—"Macbeth."

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