On Her Marriage As those who hear a sweet bird sing,
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As through the street at eve we went (It might be half-past ten),
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at the l.l.a. examination In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,
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Oh for the nights when we used to sit In the firelight's glow or flicker,
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Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know, More fair to me
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St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
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From Jean Pierre Claris Florian I love to see the swallows come
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In vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay.
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The Session's over. We must say farewell To these east winds and to this eastern sea,
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Beloved Peeler! friend and guide And guard of many a midnight reeler,
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with apologies to Lord Tennyson O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,
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What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me, Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe.
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After the melting of the snow Divines depart and April comes;
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I loved a little maiden In the golden years gone by;
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on returning to St. Andrews In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again;
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Brown was my friend, and faithful—but so fat! He came to see me in the twilight dim;
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from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe It was many and many a year ago,
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In youth with diligence he toiled A Roman nose to gain,
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Through many lands and over many seas I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,
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This is the time when larks are singing loud And higher still ascending and more high,
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A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say;
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Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences;
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Hurrah for the Science Club! Join it, ye fourth year men;
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Ah yes, we know what you're saying, As your eye glances over these Notes:
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from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe In the oldest of our alleys,
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The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed through the doorway into the street,
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Artemis! thou fairest Of the maids that be
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Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.
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How many the troubles that wait On mortals!—especially those
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It is the Police Commissioners, All on a winter's day;
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