Chanson Without Music By The Professor Emeritus Of Dead And Live Languages

PHI BETA KAPPA. - CAMBRIDGE, 1867     You bid me sing, - can I forget     The classic ode of days gone by, -     How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette     Exclaimed, "Anacreon, geron ei"?     "Regardez done," those ladies said, -     "You're getting bald and wrinkled too     When summer's roses all are shed,     Love 's nullum ite, voyez-vous!"     In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry,     "Of Love alone my banjo sings"     (Erota mounon). "Etiam si, -     Eh b'en?" replied the saucy things, -     "Go find a maid whose hair is gray,     And strike your lyre, - we sha'n't complain;     But parce nobis, s'il vous plait, -     Voila Adolphe! Voila Eugene!"     Ah, jeune Lisette! Ah, belle Fifine!     Anacreon's lesson all must learn;     O kairos oxiis; Spring is green,     But Acer Hyems waits his turn     I hear you whispering from the dust,     "Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so, -     The brightest blade grows dim with rust,     The fairest meadow white with snow!"     You do not mean it! Not encore?     Another string of playday rhymes?     You 've heard me - nonne est?-before,     Multoties,-more than twenty times;     Non possum, - vraiment, - pas du tout,     I cannot! I am loath to shirk;     But who will listen if I do,     My memory makes such shocking work?     Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told     Some ancients like my rusty lay,     As Grandpa Noah loved the old     Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day.     I used to carol like the birds,     But time my wits has quite unfixed,     Et quoad verba, - for my words, -     Ciel! Eheu! Whe-ew! - how they're mixed!     Mehercle! Zeu! Diable! how     My thoughts were dressed when I was young,     But tempus fugit! see them now     Half clad in rags of every tongue!     O philoi, fratres, chers amis     I dare not court the youthful Muse,     For fear her sharp response should be,     "Papa Anacreon, please excuse!"     Adieu! I 've trod my annual track     How long! - let others count the miles, -     And peddled out my rhyming pack     To friends who always paid in smiles.     So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit     No doubt has wares he wants to show;     And I am asking, "Let me sit,"     Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"