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OUR FAIREST FOE.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

1881.

NAY, never say thou lov'st but Yale,

Nor count thyself fair Harvard's foe;

While on thy cheek now red, now pale,

The crimson flashes to and fro

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Like the aurora, or the trail

Of setting sunlight on the snow.

E'en at thy lips our standard flies,

The damask rose's blushing hues;

But, sweet, should'st thou neglect my sighs,

And crimson haughtily refuse,

The laughter sparkling in thine eyes

Would surely drive away the "Blues."

Let not the fading blue again,

Emblem of sadness, summon thee

To melancholy's wide domain,

But rather, sweetheart, choose with me

The hue of hope, of joy, of fame,

And glorious eternity.

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