THE LAMENT OF THE PHI BETA KAPPA.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,

And Harvard's Senior Class had gathered then

The flower of all her scholarship, - and bright

The lamps shone o'er her hardest-grinding men.

Phi Beta Kappa's heart beat happily, and when

Lips that had kissed the Muses oft of yore

Sipped lemonade, and sipped and sipped again,

Each got as tipsy as a Sophomore,

And made such music as was never made before.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And in hot haste the throng did wildly press;

From Young's Hotel these bold bad men did go,

And smiled at thought of their own wickedness;

For they 'd fain walk to Cambridge, - nothing less.

Holding each other up, along they reeled,

And made voluptuous music, too, I guess,

Till o'er the midnight air a wild cry pealed:

"The cops, - they come - they come!" the leader's white lips squealed.

The peeler came down like the wolf on the fold,

And the words that he uttered shall never be told;

But the blows of his billy were felt near and far,

On the nose of each gentle Phi Beta Kappa.

Like the leaves of the blue-book when Semis are here,

The Seniors stood thick, full of learning and cheer;

Like the leaves of the blue-book when Semis are o'er,

The Seniors were scattered this "marker" before.

For a devil incarnate was loose on the blast,

And shillalied the back of the man who was last,

As the Seniors' winged feet beat a quick pit-a-pat,

To the tune of the peeler's loud "Get out of that!"

But no! one lingered on the street

The "guardian of the peace" to meet,

A hatless man who had been struck

Till naught was left of him but pluck.

Shrine of the mighty! can it be

That this is all remains of thee?

"Ho! who art thou?" exclaims the cop.

"Bismillah! hold, proud moslem, stop!

Don't look at me like that, young man."

He said, - then sank beneath the scan,

As though the Senior's eye shot death,

And seemed to say beneath the breath,

"A peeler is a wicked thing."

But list! oh, list! the man would sing.

"Cop of Boston, ere we sever,

Give, oh, give me back my beaver!

Or, if you will not do that,

I will steal away thy hat,

For thy number I must know,

'O ???

"By thy zone-encircled waist,

By that mouth which likes to taste

Beer and whiskey and free-lunch,

By that nose I 'd like to punch,

By that club which hurt me so,

'O ???!

"Cop of Boston, tra-la-la!

Think of me when I'm afar.

Though I fly beyond the sea

I will still remember thee, -

Can I e'er forget thee? No!

'O ???!"

The voice was mute, but sweetly shrill

The echoes rolled to Beacon Hill.

No sound the deep-hung silence broke

Until the precious peeler spoke:

"Now shut up your infernal squeak,

And pray forbear to air your Greek;

You 'll know, my friend, before I 'm through

That I can sing as well as you."

"Fare thee well, and if for ever,

Still for ever fare thee well;

Give my number will I never

To a blarsted Cambridge swell.

"O'er the head I 'll give it to you,

And I'll never, never stop,

Till I am revenged upon you,

For you said I was a cop."

The peeler's voice was sadly sweet,

Such oft is heard on Cambridge Street.

Phi Beta Kappa's heart of oak

Trembled as if a proctor spoke.

Then they fledo'er the draw, where in safety these squealers Sang this beautiful song to the terrible peelers:

"Our dear police, our dear police,

Whose necks should all be gently wrung;

Dear guardians of the city's peace

Who hide the alley-ways among,

And pounce on boys too small to fight,

Would that thy race might end to-night."

The melody rang on the clear night air

And avenging furies heard the prayer,

But an evil spirit heard it too

And straight to the Journal's devil flew,

And bade him write with his venomous pen

Another libel on Harvard men.

Meanwhile the Seniors marched along,

And hurled defiance with one more song:

"Know ye the street where the burly policeman

Is watching for prey every night at the time

When the innocent Soph. and the timid young Freshman

Walk home from the theatre, intent upon crime?

Know ye the street where the residents wake

At the sound of all songs that the silences break;

Where the voice of the Sophomore never is mute,

But squeaks like the cry of the suffering flute?

'T is the street they call Cambridge, - worst under the sun,

Where the worst of all deeds by the students are done;

But worst of all things that are found on this street

Is its rabid policeman when out on his 'beat.'"