Were smoking on the board;
They did not rattle round in gigs,
Or dash in long-tailed blues,
But always on Commencement days
The tutors blacked their shoes.

God bless the ancient Puritans!
Their lot was hard enough;
But honest hearts make iron arms,
And tender maids are tough;
So love and faith have formed and fed
Our true-born Yankee stuff,
And keep the kernel in the shell
The British found so rough!





THE ISLAND HUNTING-SONG

The island referred to is a domain of princely proportions, which has
long been the seat of a generous hospitality. Naushon is its old Indian
name. William Swain, Esq., commonly known as "the Governor," was the
proprietor of it at the time when this song was written. Mr. John M.
Forbes is his worthy successor in territorial rights and as a hospitable
entertainer. The Island Book has been the recipient of many poems from
visitors and friends of the owners of the old mansion.

No more the summer floweret charms,