by Anthony Collins
And so we’ve all returned at last
To Oxford’s fair vicinity,
And all came ready to enjoy
A bright and sunny Trinity.
But Zeus who wields the thunderbolt,
That lord of machination,
Has vowed to foil our eager plans
With grim precipitation.
In times gone by in Trinity,
We’d feel no wet or cold -
The term when Oxford’s spires are bathed
In rays of lustrous gold;
We’d bask content on verdant lawns,
Then close one bleary eye,
Or calmly watch a lazy hawk
Drift through the opal sky;
With Pimm’s in hand, we’d guide our punts
Down Oxford’s glistening streams -
And even in our beds, the sun
Would permeate our dreams.
Yet now the sun’s held prisoner
In swathes of hoary cloud,
And dismal rain upon our rooves
Beats merciless and loud.
Each day, a chill, malicious gale
Besets our college walls,
And girls are forced to walk the streets
While wrapped in woollen shawls.
But yet, my friends, let’s not desert
The summer’s fine pursuits.
With strength of will, we’ll thwart the plans
Of that vindictive Zeus:
We’ll picnic on the meadow
Till it turns to a lagoon;
We’ll get our mallets out and play
Croquet in a monsoon.
The ball last night presents us
An example to admire -
The drizzle didn’t sour the taste
Of Cajun jambalaya.
And so against the bitter rain
This poem is our defence -
And with that reassuring thought,
The meeting must commence.