<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">A Ballad of Deathless Dons</h1><h1 align="center" class="head">or:</h1><h1 align="center" class="head">"When the Assault Was Intended to the City"</h1><p class="inline-note" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"></p><p>(In honor of an Oxford Corps composed of those concerning whom it may be said most truly, in Mr. Belloc's words, that they are </p><p xmlns:exist="http://exist.sourceforge.net/NS/exist"></p><p class="line">"Dons admirable! Dons of Might!...</p><p class="line">Dons English, worthy of the land.")</p><div class="stanza"><p class="subhead">I</p><p class="line"><span class="smallcaps">The</span> Regulars fight with all their might, the Navy keeps the seas,</p><p class="line">The Terrier<a class="footnote" href="#cunliffe011n1" name="cunliffe011n1-link" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40">1</a> sniffs on bridges and cliffs, wherever a foe might sneeze,</p><p class="line">K's keen recruit is learning to shoot, the Boy Scout scouteth still, --</p><p class="line">And after them all, the dons, the dons! -the agèd dons do drill!</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">They know, they know how well things go on the Merton fields of France;</p><p class="line">But the S.C.R.'s must be fields of Mars -- they dare leave nought to chance;</p><p class="line">"Louvain!" is the word, and their souls are stirred; for they think of their matchless tuns,</p><p class="line">And the ground shall be dusted ere Oxford's crusted port shall be broached by Huns.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="subhead">II</p><p class="line">The proud Professors toe the line</p><p class="line">And turn to the left for right incline.</p><p class="line">Forgot, forgot are their divers lores</p><p class="line">In the patriot stress of forming fours.</p><p class="line">Their mortar-boards are a hive for bees</p><p class="line">(Which they often were) as they stand at ease.</p><p class="line">Though every morn they are wisdom's fount</p><p class="line">In matters which nowadays hardly count,</p><p class="line">Each afternoon each neophyte</p><p class="line">Gets totally mixed between left and right</p><p class="line">(And a don at maths. and a logic don</p><p class="line">Turn each to each and are pounced upon).</p><p class="line">At the terrible voice of the tu -- the sergeant</p><p class="line">Their gills go gules and their locks more argent.</p><p class="line">And still as the breath comes short, and the knees</p><p class="line">Wobble in places, and many a wheeze</p><p class="line">Is torn from the depth of complaining tums,</p><p class="line">Down the weak line the whisper comes:</p><p class="line">"<em>Memento</em> Louvain!" -- or "Rheims, μέμνησθε!"</p><p class="line">"Oxford!" they cry, "shall beer-swillers fleece thee?"</p><p class="line">And still -- though their breath comes yet more short --</p><p class="line">They drill like mad to preserve her port.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="subhead">III</p><p class="line">See, in the foremost rank,</p><p class="line">His brow with <em>sudor</em> dank,</p><p class="line">His gown unpipeclayed in his loyal hurry,</p><p class="line">Private Professor <span class="smallcaps">Gilbert</span><span class="smallcaps">Murray</span>! --</p><p class="line">Hear, oh, hear,</p><p class="line">With almost swooning ear,</p><p class="line">The sergeant (Chiron in disguise),</p><p class="line">With how sarcastic drawl he</p><p class="line">Damneth the eyes</p><p class="line">Of Private Prof. Eng. Lit. <span class="smallcaps">Sir</span><span class="smallcaps">Walter</span><span class="smallcaps">Raleigh</span>! --</p><p class="line">See yet again</p><p class="line">With uncontrollèd pleasure</p><p class="line">There, marking time amain</p><p class="line">As with such feet as make a lyric measure,</p><p class="line">Like Æschylus upon the Marathon day, --</p><p class="line">Next to that nice ex-proctor, --</p><p class="line">Private and Poet Laureate <span class="smallcaps">Dr</span>.</p><p class="line"><span class="smallcaps">Bridges</span>, M.A.! --</p><p class="line">And see -- but let your eyes with pride be dim! --</p><p class="line">Him who professes Art and Archæology</p><p class="line">Standing as rear-rank man to him</p><p class="line">Of Anthropology.</p><p class="line">(Well knows the latter how to dodge,</p><p class="line">That bullets in no deadly place may lodge!) --</p><p class="line">Him of Eng. Law behold,</p><p class="line">Not overbold</p><p class="line">To reason why when sergeants bid him charge:</p><p class="line">Him of Greek History, him of Geography,</p><p class="line">All very fine and large,</p><p class="line">This, swift to seize advantage of topography,</p><p class="line">That, to announce how ne'er a corps did train</p><p class="line">So well since Sparta went upon the wane.</p><p class="line">And there be others:</p><p class="line">A publisher and sundry heads of houses,</p><p class="line">Spurred by North Oxford spouses,</p><p class="line">Bidden go forth by yet more agèd mothers;</p><p class="line">And, standing desperately at attention</p><p class="line">(But looking forward to their tea and scones),</p><p class="line">Innumerable dons</p><p class="line">And parsons beyond mention.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="subhead">IV</p><p class="line">They are not afraid of the Boys' Brigade, for they've taken the kiddies' guns,</p><p class="line">Which shoot nohow -- but they've learnt by now to depend on the end that stuns.</p><p class="line">And all the rules of the Final Schools combine in a splendid spur,</p><p class="line">When the Pyrrhic phalanx does right-about-turn and the order is "As you were!"</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">Oh, K's recruit is learning to shoot, the Boy Scout scouteth still, --</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">But after them all, the dons, the dons! -- the deathless dons do drill!</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">"Louvain!" is the word, and their souls are stirred; for they think of their matchless tuns,</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">And the ground shall be dusted ere Oxford's crusted port shall be broached by Huns!</p></div><p class="byline">-- Wilfrid Blair.</p></body></html> · Great War