I.
UNHAPPY man upon whose helpless wit
Depends the task to prove himself a poet!
Oh aid me, Nine, to make a three base hit,
And if at any time I need a rhyme
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With agony I pray ye to bestow it.
II.
The thought of Eighty-two's all matchless worth
Would wake in any breast poetic feeling:
Never a class existed on the earth
Which in the Freshman year with modest fear
Succeeded so in all its powers concealing.
III.
And when as Sophs the class together came,
And freedom found to give its powers expression,
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Make up Mid-Year Examinations.
