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The future, it is now the chearful noon, And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze

With eyes alive to joy ;

When the dark night descends, My weary lids I willingly shall close,

Again to wake in light.

ERTHUSYO. THE RHEDYCINIAN BARBERS.

In the eighteenth century, the author of the following parody, (not a Christ-Church-man) being at Oxford, saw at a distance twelve persons running at full speed towards ChristChurch Cloisters, which they entered: curiosity led him to follow them; when looking through an opening in the door of a certain Commoner's room, he saw twelve pale figures resembling men; they were all employed about a youth, and as they worked they sung the following song : when they had finished they put up their implements, and each taking his own, they scowered away, six towards Peckwater, and six towards the Great Quadrangle.

Now the sky begins to clear,

Haste, the powder-bag prepare ;
Showers of sweets and perfumes dear

Tremble in the thickened air.

Blackened ivory is the comb,

With which thy dusky locks we strain; Working many a Louses doom,

Kreepers woe and Krawlers bane.

See the frosted texture grow,

'Tis of Marechalle powder made; And the tail that plays below,

Hangs from **** ***** head.

White stitch'd shoes ne'er dipt in dirt,

Scud the Quadrangle along ; String in bow-knot neatly girt,

Keep the quarters close and strong.

Harris * Tom with unkempt head,

Charles * the Scout in hurry see; Join the beauteous work to aid,

'Tis the work of friperie!

Now the ruddy sun is set,

Chairs must shiver, students sing, Cap with clattering cap shall meet,

Bottles crash and glasses ring!

Gently spread the perfumed fat,

Let us go and let us fly ;
Where the youths expectant wait,

For us to powder us to tie.

* Two persons well known at Christ-Church, As the gravel'd path we tread,

Wading through the empuddled square ; Parapluie of oild silk spread,

O'er the youthful beau's drest head.

Swift Italia's perfumes throw,

Ours to plaster ours to plat ; Spite of weather he shall go,

Gently spread the perfumed fat.

Hairs that once like bristles grim,

Greasy grew into his neck ; Soon shall stretch in order trim,

O'er the dark brown of his cheek.

Low the obdurate curl is laid,

By our irons straightened down; Dress demands the finish'd head,

Soon the fore-top shall be done.

Long shall Christ-Church smile with joy,

Such a head as this to see ; Long her strains in praise employ,

Strains of wit and repartee.

Mille-fleur covers all his pate!

Trickling streams of Jasmine run! Wave the puff in silky state,

Brothers cease! the work is done.

Hail the task and hail the hands,

Joy and triumph to our shop; Joy to our barbaric hands,

Triumph o’er each blackguard crop.

Valet thou that tiest a tail,

Learn thy business from our song; Christ-Church, thro' each cloister pale,

Spread our fame and credit long.

Brothers hence ! your puffs lay down,

Each his powder-bag comprest;
Mány a student in the town,
Waits impatient to be drest.

G. C. B.

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