Kenyon College - Reveille Yearbook (Gambier, OH)

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8 “NO YUM OR GANUM. We’ve toiled amain, tlio weary “plumb0 Nor base, nor rest bath found. No crumb Of hope, that he’ll amend, our gloom At all allays; then up; his doom Pronounce; his “papers” give! Yet still Our hearts relent and fain would fill This lad’s last cup brimfull with sweets. So then we’ll vouch for luscious treats ’Midst truths and garnered stores, When once you’ve opo’d her golden doors With Senior key. Oh, but wont you joy In your loved “Ego’s” much employ! My eye! You’ll grow of such account. That to the very “star(rh)’s” you’ll mount! Such “feastsof soul” will also warm Fierce Dick the “Duelist’s” stout arm To break a Law—all, oh, pray all That ne’er again those lists may fall On luckless mortal’s nose! “Spare speech,” Howe’er, pack close and tight, you’d filch His precious time! Now, thieves we’re not And so’ll quit quick; this Gordian knot No more we ’ll hack, but only laic “Bisk,”—nor him, save with mild, cleric Tones as seemeth well our lowliness. Good my Lord, may’t please your Holiness, Wherefore such fearful mein and visage Harsh? Thou well art famed for a carriage High; woro’t else, ’twould ill beseem thy rank. But, sure, the MKAT-AX-look that steels Your face and plays from head to heels Round “embonpoint” so very marked Is hardly meet! Who so hath harked To Cheney’s vaunts will sure ne’er rate This showing of a “Bishop’s” trait— Or foible, if you’d rather. But, If that’s the “why” you’re pleased, ne’er shut Blaine’s windows up; nay, let it pour! Welcome, c’re that, the tempest’s roar! Our task’s now done; the glass is run, Or will be in n trice. Not fun Alone hath been our aim ; ah, no! 'flie mirage’s antic scenes soon go— And leave tlf athirst in tears. A thought Sad we’d have some, then, for sins so fraught With shame, as ’hind the organ sneaking,

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 “NOVUM ORGANUM.” Pearly glows bright “the weed” by dollar’s Flash ignited. For longer yarn craze Granville’s Fair, whom he did so amaze By his blazing skill at pipe and hat, As well’s in other ways. “For a’ that” We yet must own this youth has one sad Fault, which could we skip we’d be ten) glad; To Virgin worship he’s given By far too much for hope of Heaven. Alack, that Circe-like sylphs should witch With Syren songs so low and rich, This Paris fair; that smiles so coy, Should once again burn up a Troy! But hold, thou quill, reserve thy lire, Yea, let us cease to pluck his heard; (’Tis even now too sparse.) We’ve heard Him roar full oft enough, this “Lion In his den.” Patience now, and we’ll on To a piece of liner clay well tried In lircs of Kenyon Court from “Oxide Slugs” and every sort of gas; tho’ Still, his kindly critics grieve to know, His “brass” gleams brighter than before. Yet haste thee, muse, nor tarry more This Pennsylvanian “hoar” to sing, Lest with huge fang and frightful spring II 5 grind you into dust. “With fear And trembling,” then, low lisp tliee, dear, In whispers under breath, how sobbed “Tho City” at his loss; how throbbed Our hearts with gratitude profound At sight of him; and how, when found That for to civilize us boors Was ho come down, leaped forth from doors And windows too, at cry—“ Heads out,” That thnnd’ring clap and stentor shout That made tho welkin ring, with welcomes Loud, at our Apostle's landing! Beams Next this errant saint o’ Bhenish fame To Prelate’s festive board. All, fine Sight that, like moonlight’s'rain Ik» w splendid, To’ve seen him bow, this beau, while down did Beam from painting’s frame his lustrous Card divine. But hold! For gracious Snkes his idiocrasics deep slough Don’t try to sound, or you’ll drown; for though

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“NOVUM ORGANUM.” 9 While “Prex’’ with Presides soft was speaking Of secrets, hid and dark. Fio on “Blink’s” Goggled eye, if,t couldn’t spy, metliinks, A nook more snug for eaves-droppcPs ear! And now adieux; yet stay tli’ above’s dear Twin to sing, him o’ the ruby head And Hclcnic lino divine! On speed Thee, nimbly, gentle verse, this triad Georgian full to fill with Cap’s glad, Smiling name! Ho, here’s our goal! Not Ste(af )rn We’ll sing, but jocund now; we’ll learn A minstrel lay to vent our joys, Or else some interlude, that cloys Liko those seraphic strains that swell Our chapel arches through with spell As of Orphic lyre. ’Tifl true, O, Choir, thy chants do melt to tears; tlio’ How rapturous more, and now we’re mum If you’d a “Novum Organum!” a