A Song Of "Twenty-Nine"

1851     The summer dawn is breaking     On Auburn's tangled bowers,     The golden light is waking     On Harvard's ancient towers;     The sun is in the sky     That must see us do or die,     Ere it shine on the line     Of the CLASS OF '29.     At last the day is ended,     The tutor screws no more,     By doubt and fear attended     Each hovers round the door,     Till the good old Praeses cries,     While the tears stand in his eyes,     "You have passed, and are classed     With the Boys of '29."     Not long are they in making     The college halls their own,     Instead of standing shaking,     Too bashful to be known;     But they kick the Seniors' shins     Ere the second week begins,     When they stray in the way     Of the BOYS OF '29.     If a jolly set is trolling     The last Der Freischutz airs,     Or a "cannon bullet" rolling     Comes bouncing down the stairs,     The tutors, looking out,     Sigh, "Alas! there is no doubt,     'T is the noise of the Boys     Of the CLASS OF '29."     Four happy years together,     By storm and sunshine tried,     In changing wind and weather,     They rough it side by side,     Till they hear their Mother cry,     "You are fledged, and you must fly,"     And the bell tolls the knell     Of the days of '29.     Since then, in peace or trouble,     Full many a year has rolled,     And life has counted double     The days that then we told;     Yet we'll end as we've begun,     For though scattered, we are one,     While each year sees us here,     Round the board of '29.     Though fate may throw between us     The mountains or the sea,     No time shall ever wean us,     No distance set us free;     But around the yearly board,     When the flaming pledge is poured,     It shall claim every name     On the roll of '29.     To yonder peaceful ocean     That glows with sunset fires,     Shall reach the warm emotion     This welcome day inspires,     Beyond the ridges cold     Where a brother toils for gold,     Till it shine through the mine     Round the Boy of '29.     If one whom fate has broken     Shall lift a moistened eye,     We'll say, before he 's spoken -     "Old Classmate, don't you cry!     Here, take the purse I hold,     There 's a tear upon the gold -     It was mine-it is thine -     A'n't we BOYS OF '29?"     As nearer still and nearer     The fatal stars appear,     The living shall be dearer     With each encircling year,     Till a few old men shall say,     "We remember 't is the day -     Let it pass with a glass     For the CLASS OF '29."     As one by one is falling     Beneath the leaves or snows,     Each memory still recalling,     The broken ring shall close,     Till the nightwinds softly pass     O'er the green and growing grass,     Where it waves on the graves     Of the BOYS OF '29!