Can I e'er forget thee? No!
'O ???!"
The voice was mute, but sweetly shrill
The echoes rolled to Beacon Hill.
No sound the deep-hung silence broke
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Until the precious peeler spoke:
"Now shut up your infernal squeak,
And pray forbear to air your Greek;
You 'll know, my friend, before I 'm through
That I can sing as well as you."
"Fare thee well, and if for ever,
Still for ever fare thee well;
Give my number will I never
To a blarsted Cambridge swell.
"O'er the head I 'll give it to you,
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The Yale and Second Regiment Games.
