The Boys. Written for a Meeting of College Classmates. By Oliver W. Holmes
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise!
Hang the Almanac’s cheat, and the Catalogue’s spite!
Old Time is a liar! We’re twenty to-night.
We’re twenty! We’re twenty! Who says we are more?
He’s tipsy, young jackanapes! Show him the door!
“Gray temples at twenty?” Yes! white, if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest, there’s nothing can freeze.
Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close,—you will see not a sign of a flake;
We want some new garlands for those we have shed,—
And these are white roses in place of the red.
We’ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
Of talking (in public) as if we were old;—
That boy we call “Doctor,” and this we call “Judge”;—
It’s a neat little fiction,—of course, it’s all fudge.
That fellow’s “the Speaker,”—the one on the right;
“Mr. Mayor,” my young one, how are you to-night?
That’s our “Member of Congress,” we say when we chaff;
There’s the “Reverend” What’s his name? Don’t make me laugh!
Yes, we’re boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,—
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here’s to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys!