Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July.

One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams
(Its wadding is made of forensics and themes);
Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan
As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!

And love! Bless my stars, what a cartridge is there!
With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,--
All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot!
"Were there ever such sweethearts?" Of course there were not!

And next,--what a load! it wall split the old gun,--
Three fingers,--four fingers,--five fingers of fun!
Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise
Was there ever a lot like us fellows, "The Boys"?

Bump I bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,--
Aha, old Professor! Look out for your toes!
Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in your bed,--
Two "Boys"--'twenty-niners-room over your head!

Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!
From red "Massachusetts" the war-cry was raised;
And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" reechoed the call;
Till P----- poked his head out of Holworthy Hall!

Old P----, as we called him,--at fifty or so,--
Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow;
In ripening manhood, suppose we should say,