A boston gentleman declares,
By all the gods above, below,
That our degenerate sons and heirs
Must let their Greek and Latin go!
Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore,
A dispensation harsh as that;
What! wipe away the sweets of yore;
The dear " Amo, amas, amat " ?

The sweetest hour the student knows
Is not when poring over French,
Or twisted in Teutonic throes,
Upon a hard collegiate bench;
'Tis when on roots and kais and gars
He feeds his soul and feels it glow,
Or when his mind transcends the stars
With " Zoa mou, sas agapo " !

So give our bright, ambitious boys
An inkling of these pleasures, too —
A little smattering of the joys
Their dead and buried fathers knew;
And let them sing — while glorying that
Their sires so sang, long years ago —
The songs " Amo, amas, amat, "
And " Zoa mou, sas agapo " !