"THE CLASS OF '85."

GENTLE READER:

"When next in verse my muse doth strive,
I'll sing the praise of Eighty-Five."

QUONDAM POET OF '84.

The Juniors are the jolly men who edit the RESERVE;

They're men of mind and muscle; they're men of strength and nerve;
They always are good fellows, and often lead the school;
The men of Eighty-Five are not exceptions to the rule.
We lead Adelbert College, that fact no one denies;
Professors sit up half the night to laud us to the skies;
The so-called Seniors look with rage upon our lofty station,

And curse the day that made them slaves-poor Seniors on probation!
The Sophomore doth grit his teeth, and smile a sickly smile,
When he sees the gentle Junior with his elegant silk tile.
The Juniors by the Freshmen are worshiped and adored,
And we adore the "Fairy Five" who wear the mortar-board.
Now, such a class deserves great praise-you want to see our faces,
To look upon each Junior man, to gaze upon "The Graces;"
And so, to gratify your wish, we had our portraits painted;
And now with all the seventeen I'll make you well acquainted.

Wild Wacca Ashley lived out in the west;
He came to Adelbert for quiet and rest.
He used to be numbered with old '84,
But now he's a Junior clear through to the core.
He joined us this fall-name starts with an A-
He's first and the last of the Juniors to-day;
He'll earn, in the future, his dollars and dimes
By pounding his head-piece and writing poor rhymes.

THE GLADIATOR.

X

"Tread softly, bow the head; in reverent silence bow;"
The President of '85 is here before you now.

The Senator, we call him, his name is E. E. Brooks;
He lives in naughty Newburgh; he rooms with J. F. Crooks.
(I here might add, I guess I won't, a verse about his looks.)
His portrait shows his aim in life—John Sullivan he'll slug;
And when he prances 'round the ring he'll wear his Junior plug,
And some infernal editor will call him "Brooks, the Thug."

OUR BISHOP.

This is the Percy poll-evil, the murmuring youth of the Juniors. Slow are his accents, and sad—he speaks in elegiac measure. Of him his comrades and friends say, in tones of derision: "Which is the greater of evils, Percy, the Junior before you, Or stern Persecution, his rival?" Hard is the riddle to ravel. Here on his divan he slumbers; those are his shoes by his bedside; That is his plug that he's wearing. Would you enquire the reason? 'Twould take him so long to put on it, he'd never get out to the College.

THE SPORTING EDITOR.

The form that here doth meet your gaze
Is that of Fred, our poet-painter,

Whose pictures and whose songs are quainter
Than fantasies of ancient bards.

He's catcher on the College nine,

And well can judge Falernian wine.

He loves the sweet and coy Bill Yards,

And also loves the waltzy maze.

OUR HOPES AND OUR AIM(E)s.

Sound the tocsin! beat the drum!
Ashtabula's turn has come !

Ashtabula! Ashtabu!

Ashta Ashta! bula! boo!

Ashta! Hashtab Mashta! Mash!

Rida! Pona! Allto! Smash!

If-I stepup onhis toes

'Fraidhe'll mashthe poet'snose!

"OH JAWGE!"

Gustavus Marcellus Hannibal Fletcher

Was once on a time a jolly cowketcher;
When he chases a cow you can certainly betcher
Very last red that in time he will fetcher.

He begged of the artist who painted this painting
To leave out his feet and keep people from fainting,
But his feet must be seen as he carries the hod,
And the space 'twixt two rounds on the ladder's a rod.

The poet's great brain on its axis fast whirls
As he thinks of those seraphs, the '85 girls;
And he feels how unworthy his thoughts, and how chaffy;
He knows it's audacious to give lasses taffy.

I've tried for many a weary hour
To find a word to rhyme with Lauer,
Till heart is heavy and soul is sour,

And rhymes rain down in a perfect shower.
Like Louis of France is our genial Paul;

Dearly beloved by one and all.

When he winds up his course and gets his degree
He'll sell nuts and candy way down by the sea.