A CLASS POEM.

I.

UNHAPPY man upon whose helpless wit

Depends the task to prove himself a poet!

Oh aid me, Nine, to make a three base hit,

And if at any time I need a rhyme

With agony I pray ye to bestow it.

II.

The thought of Eighty-two's all matchless worth

Would wake in any breast poetic feeling:

Never a class existed on the earth

Which in the Freshman year with modest fear

Succeeded so in all its powers concealing.

III.

And when as Sophs the class together came,

And freedom found to give its powers expression,

Genius, too long repressed, then sought for fame:

We won the second place in that year's race,

Though that was not a thing to lay much stress on.

IV.

The trials of the early Junior year

Need not to be particularly dwelt on;

But note - last Saturday did scarce appear

When every student flushed to Boston rushed,

From digs in College House to swells in Felton.

V.

On fire with eager hope and anxious fear

The poet saddled soon his prancing horse-car,

And to the wall of Beacon Street drew near,

Where Harvard's "Lardy Dahs" with loud hurrahs

Showed each one thought his own class had the boss tar.

VI.

A flash upon the water two miles off

Proclaims the start. With haughty mien and manner

The Sophs and Seniors offer odds, and scoff;

But now with many a curse, each shows a purse

As lean and empty as was Dr. Tanner.

VII.

For with a bold and steady rhythmic sweep,

The gallant crews approach the appointed finish,

And Eighty-two's ahead! Our pulses leap;

While anxious fear has now come o'er the brow

Of those whose chances rapidly diminish.

VIII.

'Tis true! those leading oars are ours - 'rah! 'rah!

Those colors ours; there's three's almighty whisker,

And those mustaches three, and see - hurrah!

Our stroke's most perfect form provokes a storm

Of cheers that makes our very blood flow brisker.

IX.

We won the race, and yet we weep to think

That Eighty-one must make confession sadly

That on that vasty, briny, treacherous drink,

They've not sufficient power to match with our

Young crew. Our sympathy we give them gladly.

X.

Did Harvard win o'er Yale the other day?

The skill of Eighty-two must have the honor.

And did Columbia yield the palm? They say

From Eighty-two he came who won the game.

All know who takes the prize as Harvard's runner.

XI.

How tell of individual worth? How bring

The Future's need to present comprehension?

The class of Nineteen-Eighty-two shall sing

The praises manifold - a century old -

Of those whose deeds astonish all creation.

XII.

From low beginning Eighty-two has come

To this high point, which we'll abandon never.

Let's drink its health in glass of sparkling Mumm,

And make the echoes ring, as loud we sing,

"The glorious class of Eighty-two for ever."