And it has turned since you and I
Set out to face the world alone;
And, in a garret near the sky,
Had scarce a crust to call our own,
But many a banquet, Barmecide;
And many a dream of hope divine,
Lie buried in the moaning tide,
That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!
But prosing isn't quite the thing,
And so, I guess, I'll give it up:
Just wait a moment while I sing;
We'll have another parting cup,
And then to bed. The stars are low;
Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine;
So here she goes, and off we go
To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!
JOHN J. GORMLEY.
CANNON SONG.
Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes,
Your richest incense raise;
Let's take a smoke, a parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!
_Chorus_. For good old by-gone days,
We'll smoke for good old by-gone days!
We'll take a smoke, a parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!
We'll crown the cannon with a cloud,
We'll celebrate its praise;
Recalling _its_ old parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!
We'll smoke to these we leave behind
In devious college ways;
We'll smoke to songs we've sung before,
In good old by-gone days.
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