of Holworthy Hall!

Old P----, as we called him,--at fifty or so,--
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should say,
Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day!

Oh say, can you look through the vista of age
To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage?
When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years,
And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears?

And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed
The days of our dealings with Willard and Read?
When "Dolly" was kicking and running away,
And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?

But where are the Tutors, my brother, oh tell!--
And where the Professors, remembered so well?
The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall,
And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, and all?

"They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then,
Though we since have found out they were lusty young men).
They are dead, do you tell me?--but how do you know?
You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.

I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight?
It's not quite so clear. It admits of debate.
I may have been dreaming. I rather incline
To think--yes, I'm certain--it is 'twenty-nine!

"By Zhorzhe!"--as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,--
You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie!
Is Jackson not President?--What was 't you said?
It can't be; you're joking; what,--all of 'em dead?

Jim,--Harry,--Fred,--Isaac,--all gone from our side?
They could n't have left us,--no, not if they tried.
Look,--there 's our old Prises,--he can't find his text;
See,--P----- rubs his leg, as he growls out "The next!"

I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give us a song!
Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her along!--
Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not!
Hurrah for Old Hickory!--Oh, I forgot!

Well, _one_ we have with us (how could he contrive
To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?)
Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,--
No wonder he took to the study of Job!

And now, as my load was uncommonly large,
Let me taper it off with a classical charge;
When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun--
And then stand at ease, for my service is done.

_Bibamus ad Classem vocatam_ "The Boys"
_Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est "Noyes";_
_Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam,_
_Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!_

THE OLD CRUISER

1869

HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine,
Forty times she 's crossed the line;
Sam