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BREVITIES.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

From the great Lit, which seemed supremely hurt

And made allusions to my "front of brass,"

And the Courant, which dubbed me, short and curt,

The consummation of a perfect ass,"

Down to the News, that literary squirt,

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And Bumley's breezy bray that filled the world with gas.

Well, well! It's over, and my ink runs low.

Here Smintheus drops his ancient war-worn name,

Breaks his weird pen, forbids the ink to flow. -

No more to seek for journalistic fame

(The phantom fame that college papers know);

And if your anger is no lasting flame,

Let us shake hands, Old Yale, before I go,

And own in all our strifes that we were both to blame!

Some day, Old Yale, we'll form a pleasant party

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