With pipe and book, an old armchair,
A glowing hearth, what need I care
For empty honors, wealth or fame?
Grant me but this: an honest name,
A cup of ale, a coat to wear,
And then, while smoke wreaths rift the air,
The banquet of the gods I share,
Content to sit before the flame
With pipe and book.
Above the city's noisy glare,
Yet sweet, tho' humble, is my fare;
For changing not from praise to blame,
These faithful friends are still the same—
No earthly comforts can compare
With pipe and book.
CHARLES E. MERRILL, JR. Yale Courant.
~O Hero.~
Out into the mud and the wet he goes,
My hero, tall and strong;
Under his jersey the muscle shows,
And, Samson-like, his dark hair grows
Delightfully thick and long.
Out from his feet the black mud flies,
His jacket is far from white;
Bother these boys with their dapper ties,
Who come and compel me to turn my eyes
Away from a nobler sight!
The hills are red with the western sun,
The twilight comes like a dream;
But until the practice work is done
I strain my eyes for his every run,
And I know he will make the team.
I envy the fellow who keeps his cap,
With so little appreciation,
While I stroll back with a soft-tongued chap
Whose muscles I know aren't worth a rap,
And whose hair is an imitation.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Four-Leaved Clover.
~To the Faculty.~