Poems Class of 29 (1851-1889) | Page 9

the scoff;

It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off!
"Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! What doesn't it hold?
Rammed full to the
muzzle with memories untold;
Why, it scares me to fire, lest the
pieces should fly
Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July
One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams
(Its wadding is made
of forensics and themes);
Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan

As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!
And love! Bless my stars, what a cartridge is there!
With a wadding
of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,--
All crammed in one verse to go
off at a shot!
"Were there ever such sweethearts?" Of course there
were not!
And next,--what a load! it wall split the old gun,--
Three
fingers,--four fingers,--five fingers of fun!
Come tell me, gray sages,
for mischief and noise
Was there ever a lot like us fellows, "The
Boys"?
Bump I bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,--
Aha, old
Professor! Look out for your toes!
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to
sleep in your bed,--
Two "Boys"--'twenty-niners-room over your
head!
Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!
From red
"Massachusetts" the war-cry was raised;
And "Hollis " and
"Stoughton " reechoed the call;
Till P----- poked his head out of
Holworthy Hall!
Old P----, as we called him,--at fifty or so,--
Not exactly a bud, but
not quite in full blow;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should say,

Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day!

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.
"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck,
How does it happen you're
not a wreck?
One and another have come to grief,
How have you
dodged by rock and reef?"
Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid,
Hitches his breeches and shifts
his quid
"Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief
Louder, young
swab, I 'm a little deaf."
"I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat
With all you jolly old boys
afloat,
When scores of vessels as good as she
Have swallowed the
salt of the