The whispered call of evil-masking night,
The signal whistle of the well-known crew,
The bumping bang of “blowers” beat with might,
Will often rouse the “Nippers of Peru.”
For them in vain for hours their hearts will burn,
While busy housewives tremble at their noise,
And frightened children to their fathers turn,
Too badly scared to think of play or toys.
Oft has th’ rotunda echoed to their songs,
In dulcet strains that on the still air broke;
Oft has the lawn resounded with their gongs,
That roared and rattled ’neath their sturdy stroke.
Let not their victims mock th’ infernal din,
Coal-scuttle drums, and clarion paper trump;
But let them hear with a sardonic “grin,”
The hideous clamor of a “Calathump.”
The boast of Mozart, or Beethoven’s pride,
The sweetest notes Von Weber ever gave,
Alike would prove harsh dissonance beside
The gushing concord of one college stave.
To-night upon their pillows will be laid
Heads that are pregnant with some secret plan;
Hands that a “poker” often may have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy an old tin pan.
In vain grave study holds before their gaze
Her ample page and honor’s glittering roll;
The fire of “frolic” in their bosom plays,
And warms the devilish current of their soul.
Full many a mind that might have nations hurled
About as toys, has hid its talents rare;
And many a voice that might have moved a world,
Has cracked in shoutings on the midnight air.
Some village Hampden here by night may bawl,
Some unknown Milton, but by no means mute;
Some David that may soothe a savage Saul,
As yet entirely guiltless of a lute.
The applause of gaping urchins to command,
The darkies’ laughter at their quaint disguise,
A few short words from some one to the band,
This is their sole reward, their hard-earned prize.