Freshman Year

Alas! For all the pleasant ways

We traversed in our Freshman days!

So green were we, so free from guile

And so confiding all the while—

You cannot blame the Soph’mores really

For—ah, our freshness cost us dearly—

They hazed us well—but not unkindly

If aught, too well-and we resign’dly

Accepted meekly green regalia

And deemed all lack of spirit failure!

What time it took to settle courses.

We absolutely worked like horses!

Our French surprised poor, dear Miss Gill:

Our German—that’s surprising still,

And what with Latin, Math and Gym,

Miss Bush’s aid on subjects dim,

And well-timed lectures on hygiene

We soon, ah me! Were not so green!

Not too green, soon, at any rate

At Basket-Ball to meet sad fate,

Not yet—with gestures quite ecstatic

To venture into fields dramatic.

Who can forget—when in full numbers   

We stirred the upper classmen’s slumbers

At Four A.M. with lusty shouting

Because we’d had a freshman outing?

Dear me! What energy possessed us then!

We’d even time to wield the pen

And with what cheerful hearts and strong

We sang our winning banner song!

But of all victories the most sweet

Was when we won that first Spring meet—

So soon it all passed—ah what ways

We wandered in our Freshmen days

Sophomore Year

Early in September

Back we came to College

Came so grave and dignified

Just to awe those Freshie’s pride

Back we came to College.

Do you all remember?

And that sturdy Freshman class

What an endless, countless mass

How we missed our own lost friends

Early in September!

Mistress May, our leader

Spurred our flagging spirits.

Basket ball did hopeless seem,

We had lost quite half our team,

Cause for flagging spirits!

Of Mistress May, our leader!

Sophomore Year was fleeting,

Ending all too soon!

 All our cares were light and small

Worry—we ne’er knew at all!

And the play in June

Gaily we made greeting

When our sister class appeared

Long and loud we stoutly cheered.

Ah! We all regret alas

That Sophomore Year was fleeting!

 Junior Year 

When we were Junior, smooth was our career

We hardly had a trouble all the year!

We hurried back quite early and “en masse”

To welcome in our little sister class.

So large a class to us seemed quite a crown

No wonder we were just a little proud

Of our new class; and really, truth to say,

We have grown prouder of them every day.

I said our course was smooth—we had our troubles.

In chemistry—but they were only bubbles!

For class—we almost always came on time

And paid our dues—each member, every dime.

In special Latin, and in English too

We still were represented by a few

Who used to shine; and here we ought

To mention Mary’s memorable report

Upon the novel which caused some discussion

About the modern writers—French and Russian!

We had no Year Book then to cause us worry

And so we never used to rush or hurry—

We spent much time on “souls” without a doubt

But that was just to help our neighbors out.

If age, perchance, had made us less athletic

It also saw us tend toward things aesthetic,

Besides, reflected glories oft did pass

To us from our triumphant sister class

The history of the brightest days is short.

And so, our chiefest pleasures seem as nought

The year sped on so fast we only learned

That we were Seniors by our tassels turned!

Senior Year

Ages ago in our Freshmen year—

Ages ago and a day—

We longed to be Seniors, grave and severe

Wonderful longings were they!

And longings that couldn’t come true, I fear

 In a possible, wonderful way!

For the path of a Senior is narrow and straight

Now we are here, we know—

There are graver troubles than coming late

Back from a Broadway show,

And a Senior must always appear sedate

Wherever she chances to go.

Methods to haunt her every week,

Essays to write galore.

Year Book snap-shots and ads. To seek.

 “Private” on every door,

All sorts of studies, not to speak

Of dozens of worries more!

Tactful, talented, just and wise

From “cuts” and “conditions” free—

Half of our heavy burden lies

In knowing we ought to be.

And the cause of our num’rous touching sighs

Is—just that we’re not, you see!

Little we guessed, in those days gone by

When we longed to be staid, in vain,

That just as our College years would fly

The goal of our hopes would wane!

And now as Seniors I think we sigh

Just to be Freshman again