Saint Valentine, those days were long ago;
Your power is lost upon this penitent,
For, with my Senior gravity, I know
That life means more than your light sentiment.
And yet, this once, your day shall have from me
Some of the old observance, though I scoff;
My thesis waits,—my Valentine shall be
The old-maid sister of my major prof.
CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. Sequoia.
~The Banjo Fiend.~
There is a fellow across the way
Who plays the banjo night and day,
And all you ever hear him play,
Is plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.
He plays along with might and main,
Be it foul or fair, be it snow or rain,
And, oh! it is that constant strain,
That plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.
You sit here in your room and swear,
But he can't hear, nor does he care,
Only goes on playing that same old air,
The plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.
It is his hope that some fine day
On the Banjo Club they'll let him play,
But he won't if we have aught to say,
With his plunk, plunk, plunkety, plunk, plunk.
WILLARD GROSVENOR BLEYER. The Badger.
~Varium et Mutabile.~
I saw her going to the game,
Her eyes were bright, her cheeks aflame,
And o'er her shoulders lightly fell
A Princeton scarf, her choice to tell.