R.O. RYDER. Yale Record.
~A Toast.~
What though the storm-king growls in rage,
And the daylight fast is dimming;
We'll add to the score on Mem'ry's page,
While the butt with cheer is brimming.
And Love shall be the tapster gay,
To draw at nod or winking;
And whether the clouds be gold or gray,
Here's to the cup and its clinking!
Those moist lips, touched in single bliss,
More constant are than lovers';
Their foamy depth holds many a kiss,
And many a sigh it smothers.
Then ho for the blood of youth, say I,
And the mad, glad hopes it bringeth;
For the palsied step of Age draws nigh,—
"Sans hope, sans joy!" he singeth.
A. K. LANE. Tuftonian.
~A Ballade of College Girls.~
What do the dear girls learn nowadays,
At all the colleges where they go?
They've no cane-rushes nor football frays;
Whence can their wealth of wisdom flow?
Up at Wellesley they learn to row;
Gowns and mortar-boards there are swell;
They flirt in the shades of "Tupelo":
I have been there,—but I won't tell!
The Smith girls had the dramatic craze,
And even the critics puffed their show;
The Amherst men are loud in their praise;
They diet on pickled limes and Poe.
At good Mount Holyoke, which some deem slow,
They learn to cook and to sweep as well;
Along with their Greek they're taught to sew:
I have been there,—but I won't tell!