The Marshal smiles a genial smile
  And retires to snooze for a little while,
  To dream of billies and dirks and slings,
  The calaboose and such pleasant things. 
  The college dig now digs for bed
  With bunged-up eyes and aching head,
  Conning his lesson o’er and o’er,
  Till an audible melodious snore
  Tells that he’s going the kingdom through
  Where Greek’s at a discount and Latin, too.

  The Doctor, robed in his snowy white,
  Gazes out from his window height,
  And he bends to the breezes his noble form,
  Like a stately oak in a thunderstorm,
  And watches his sleek and well-fed cows
  At the expense of the college browse. 
  His prayers are said; out goes the light;
  Good-night; O learned pres, good-night.

  Half-past five by Ficklin’s time
  When I again renew my rhyme;
  Old Sol is up and the college dig
  Resumes his musty, classic gig,
  “Caesar venit celere jam.” 
  With here and there an auxiliary—­
  The Marshal awakes and stalks around
  With an air importantly profound,
  And seizing on a luckless wight
  Who quietly stayed at home all night
  On a charge of not preserving order,
  Drags him before the just Recorder.

  In vain the hapless youth denies it;
  A barroom loafer testifies it. 
  “Fine him,” the court-house rabble shout
  (This is the latest jury out). 
  So when his pocketbook is eased
  Most righteous justice is appeased.

  The Doctor lay in his little bed,
  His night-cap ’round his God-like head,
  With a blanket thick and snowy sheet
  Enveloped his l——­ pshaw! and classical feet,
  And he cleared his throat and began:  “My dear,
  As well in Indiana as here—­
  I always took a morning ride,
  With you, my helpmeet, by my side.

  “This morning is so clear and cool,
  We’ll ride before it’s time for school. 
  Holloa, there John! you lazy cuss! 
  Bring forth my horse, Bucephalus!”
  So spake the man of letters.  Straight
  Black John went through the stable gate,
  But soon returned with hair on end,
  While terror wings his speed did lend,
  And out he sent his piteous wail: 
  “O boss!  Old Bucky’s lost his tail!”

  Down went the night-cap on the ground,
  Hats, boots and clothing flying round;
  In vain his helpmeet cried “Hold on!”
  He went right through that sable John. 
  Sing, sing, O Muse, what deeds were done
  This morn by God-like Peleus’ son;
  Descend, O fickle Goddess, urge
  My lyre to his bombastic splurge.

  Boots and the man I sing, who first
  Those Argive machinations cursed;
  His swimming eyes did Daniel raise
  To that sad tail of other days,
  And cried “Alas! what ornery cuss
  Has shaved you, my Bucephalus?”
  Then turning round he gently sighed,
  “We will postpone our morning ride.”