I coldly loose her clinging arms,
And roughly from my side I shove her.
It's amateur theatricals,
And I must play the tyrant lover.
HENRY MORGAN STONE.
_Brunonian_
~Phantasy.~
Her beaming eyes of deepest blue
Enthralled all who to Yale were true.
Her crimson lips, too, conquests made:
Fair Harvard's sons their homage paid,
And many a suitor came to woo
Petite Elaine.
I begged a kiss awhile ago;
The crimson lips, 'tis true, said "No,"
But in her eyes turned up to me
I read the answer differently--
The crimson never had a show,
Yale won again.
_Yale Record._
~Rosebuds.~
She plucked a rosebud by the wall
And placed it in his outstretched hands;
It was love's token, that was all,
And he rode off to foreign lands.
He kept the rosebud in his breast,
And when the battle charge was led,
They found him slain among the rest,
The rosebud stained a deeper red.
But she, beside the wall that day,
A rosebud gave to other hands;
Nor thought of that one borne away
By him who rode to foreign lands.
_Bowdoin Orient._
~Bashful Johnny.~
Young bashful Johnny loved sweet May,
And went to court her every day,
But his tongue could never swear
He loved her true.
It seems to me, had I been there,
I'd vowed my love--now wouldn't you?
Sweet May would sit by Johnny's side
And all her thoughts to him confide,
Yet take her hand he'd never dare--
So near his, too.
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