My life’s devoid of light and joy,
 My pleasures wane and fail,
For all the servants I employ
 Are Cambridge tooth and nail;
The whole of my domestic suite
 The darker azure ban;
I shrink abashed whene’er we meet
   For I’m an Oxford man.

They follow me where’er I go
 With supercilious eyes;
They do not seem to hate me—no—
 But merely to despise.
To latest night from earliest morn
 This Cambridge-backing clan
Look on me with consummate scorn,
   For I’m an Oxford man.

My butler wears a light rosette
 (E’en he has caught the craze);
Not soon, I trow, shall I forget
 His cold, accusing gaze.
The page, the cook, the footmen, too,
 Their sportive ardour fan
With ribbons of the Cambridge hue,
   And I’m an Oxford man.

With lightest blue the chairs to deck
 The weekly wage is spent,
My favourite kitten’s ribboned neck
 Proclaims a Cambridge bent;
Each sofa-cushion does the same,
 And my hot-water can
Is daily pressed into the game,
   And I’m an Oxford man.

Ofttimes I vow I’ll strive no more,
 By flight I’ll seek release,
Be happy on some foreign shore,
 Find in Suburbia peace.
Perchance in Clapham or Tibet,
 In Penge or Hindustan,
I might proclaim with less regret,
   That I’m an Oxford man.

But then, I feel, it cannot last,
 Once more will life be gay;
This state of things will all be past
 On April’s second day.
Aye, then, though Cam has won the race,
 Or Isis led the van,
Once more I’ll feel it no disgrace
   To be an Oxford man.

P. G. W.