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A CLASS POEM.

READ AT THE JUNIOR CLASS SUPPER.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

VI.

A flash upon the water two miles off

Proclaims the start. With haughty mien and manner

The Sophs and Seniors offer odds, and scoff;

But now with many a curse, each shows a purse

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As lean and empty as was Dr. Tanner.

VII.

For with a bold and steady rhythmic sweep,

The gallant crews approach the appointed finish,

And Eighty-two's ahead! Our pulses leap;

While anxious fear has now come o'er the brow

Of those whose chances rapidly diminish.

VIII.

'Tis true! those leading oars are ours - 'rah! 'rah!

Those colors ours; there's three's almighty whisker,

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