Tumbled into limbo,
Picking thro’ the locks,
Fast with arms akimbo,
Stewing in the stocks.

Pretty maids a-laughing—­
Here’s to rosy lips,
Port and sherry quaffing
While the pottle drips.

Quaffing port and sherry,
  Jolly roaring blades,
Making gay and merry
  With the giddy maids.

Red blood and revel,
  Murder, love, and fraud,—­
Dancing to the devil,
  Laughing to the Lord.

Bright gold and yellow,
  Meek maids and bold,
Old wine and mellow—­
  Wine and maids and gold.

Light life and long life,
  Brisk life and brave;
Strong life and wrong life,
  Great to the grave.

Sing a song of old days,
  Sing them back again;
Kill the canny, cold days,
  Let us live like men.

Harvard Advocate.

A Reward of Merit.

The father asked:  “How have you done
In mastering ancient lore?”
“I did so well,” replied the son,
“They gave me an encore;
The Faculty like me and hold me so dear,
They make me repeat my Freshman year.”

Trinity Tablet.

A Fin de Siecle Girl.

She studies Henrik Ibsen “to cultivate her mind,”
And reads Shakespeare and Browning through and through;
Meanwhile she knits her brows—­it is the only kind
Of fancy work this modern maid can do.

Concordiensis.

Her Reason.

Once a learned Boston maiden
  Was besought for one sweet kiss;
“Only one,” he softly pleaded,
  But the maid’s reply was this: 

“I am quite surprised you ask it,
  When you know physicians say
That for spreading dire contagion
  Kissing is the surest way.

“Though I own that what you ask me
  Would be pure, unbounded bliss,
Yet, from hygienic reasons,
  I cannot allow a kiss.”

JAMES P. SAWYER.
Yale Record.

The Cruel Maid.

One summer night, in twilight dim,
A fellow wooed a maiden prim. 
Around her waist, with, some alarm,
The naughty man had put his arm.

Her dimpled hand he stroked awhile,
Then murmured low, with loving smile,
“Could e’er so soft a thing be found,
If all the world were searched around?”

With laughing eyes and flaming cheeks,
The maid replied, “’Tis just two weeks
Since I found out that you, my pet,
Have something that is softer yet!”

“That I?  I have?  Oh, can it be? 
You darling, now I do love thee!”
Oh, Vanitas!  No sooner said,
She put her hand upon his head.

A. BRADLEY.
Columbia Spectator.

A Football Tragedy.

She clung to him, the game was o’er. 
  Content was in her soul;
“Dear heart, I’m very happy now
  That you have come back whole.”

With gentle hand he smoothed her curls,
  And tried to keep a laugh back;
“My dear, your joy is premature,
  For I am only half-back.”