As the coffin we hitherward hurried, And in crape we are decked, for proudly we dote.
On the football that is soon to be buried.
We'll bury him sadly, at dim twilight,
As day, into night is just turning, With a solemn dirge, by the dismal light.
Of the torches dimly burning. With pall and bier that's borne by the crew,
And the headstone carried behind them, His corpse shall ride, with becoming pride,
With martial music before him.
Gainst the Faculty, let not a word be said.
Thought we cannot but speak our sprrow,
We'll steadfastly gaze on the face of the dead,
And bitterly think on the morrow.
We think as we hollow the narrow bed,
And fasten the humble foot board,
That tomorrow at chapel we'll see no black eyes.
Or noses that show thev've been hit hard.
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Would-Be Actors Meet Tomorrow
