And those mustaches three, and see - hurrah!
Our stroke's most perfect form provokes a storm
Of cheers that makes our very blood flow brisker.
IX.
We won the race, and yet we weep to think
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That Eighty-one must make confession sadly
That on that vasty, briny, treacherous drink,
They've not sufficient power to match with our
Young crew. Our sympathy we give them gladly.
X.
Did Harvard win o'er Yale the other day?
The skill of Eighty-two must have the honor.
And did Columbia yield the palm? They say
From Eighty-two he came who won the game.
All know who takes the prize as Harvard's runner.
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Make up Mid-Year Examinations.
