Hail, Snow! not the white head at Snow and Paul's,
But speaking city-wise, that oddity
Which rises higher as the more it falls,
A paradoxial commodity.
The schoolboy's long expected an-nu-al;—
Abandon'd now are wicket, bat, and ball;
Gradus, degraded—manual, underfoot—
Rebate, at discount—routed, cubic-root.
The pelted village idol, by the way,
With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate,
To make a parson swear, or poacher pray,
Or frighten some old woman passing late.
Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner,
On plans of pauper diet deep intent,
May start and think of some white-haired petitioner,
Turned out to starve by act of parliament.
But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry?
Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry.