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; Same old masts and sails and crew, Tight and tough and as good as new. Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, Over her anchor goes, splash and clang! Down her sails drop, rattle and bang! Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock, Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Heading out of the classic stream. Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord. Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel. On they float with wind and tide,-- Gain at last the old ship's side; Every man looks down in turn,-- Reads the name that's on her stern. "Twenty-nine!--Diable you say! That was in Skipper Kirkland's day! What was the Flying Dutchman's name? This old rover must be the same.