Hang up the scythe! Yale's dinner-horn
Wakes hill and plain with echoes sweet;
Again, as in the early morn,
The boys around one table meet,

To ask each other where and how
The sloping field or garden lies;
To wipe the sweat-drops from the brow,
To brush the moisture from the eyes;

To lay aside the coil of care,
To sit beneath the templed trees.
A quiet hour of rest to share,
And bare the forehead to the breeze;

To speak, till eyes and words grow dim,
Of those who by the wayside fell—
Fond memory floods the bucket's brim
Which rises from the homestead well;

To sing in brief and simple strain
The swelling music of the heart,
A melody with sweet refrain
That sweeps beyond the bounds of art;

To note the lines upon the face,
Where sunshine plays though wrinkles delve;
Their pointers mark meridian-place;
The college clock is striking twelve.

For us the forenoon's work is done,
We celebrate our twentieth year,
The elms shut out the blazing sun,
The drowsy “nooning hour” is here.

We started forth when glittering dew
Aladdin's tales did well repeat;
The skies have lost their roseate hue,
The stubble crackles 'neath our feet.

We started when the fields were bright,
And shadows all behind us lay;
From noontide now till fading light
The shadows fall the other way.

We went with many a ringing shout,
With merry boast and lusty cheer;
We come with love that conquers doubt,
With hope that triumphs over fear.

We've earned at least an idle hour
To talk together in the shade—
The boy who drew the diamond bower,
Or he who held the poorest spade;

The boy who toiled with brawny arm,
The youth with fortune's spoon of gold,
Or lad, like “David,” born to charm
With plumèd flights of genius bold.

We see each individual man
Portrayed as in a magic glass,
When sixty-seven led the van—
A royal, independent class,

Which kept its course through sun and shade
With grit that never knew defeat,
And wrote upon each ringing blade
“Macte Virtute!” Hard to beat.

We had no leaders, so to speak,
No towering genius of control,
A new republic every week—
A grand committee of the whole,

Which went its way, yes, different ways,
In that cosine and tangent year,
Twin Euclid-babes in solemn baize,
Borne on the old biennial bier.

We marched full front in battle line,
We never drilled in squad or file,
No colonel decked in sashes fine—
High privates all in general style.

We read of Arthur's matchless sword,
And each one thought to try a hand;
But visions fled when monthly board
Dispersed the brave and knightly band.

We traced the bright inscription fair—
“Who pulls this blade from out the stone;”
But, ah! no Merlin's skill was there,
And none might draw the sword alone.

And then we dreamed of Portia dear,
With towers and castles ready made;
But no Autonio was near
To start us in the casket trade.

Till dawned the meaning of the tales
By Mallory and Shakespeare told—
He must attempt who wins or fails,
And “all that glistens is not gold;”

That there are other knights of fame
Than Galahad or brave Gawaine,
And other maids of sweeter name
Than Portia fair or dear Elaine;

That patience does not always win,
Or genius dream its way to power,
But both united enter in
To take the sword and princely dower;

That neither wins the race alone,
That patience pulls while genius steers;
Talent is muscle, brawn, and bone,
Genius the master of the gears.

Ay, such the lesson of old Yale,
The crowning glory of her blue—
That pluck and patience never fail
With genius coxswain of the crew.

O darling mother, loved, revered
By loyal sous in every land,
Proud of the temples you have reared,
We come to take you by the hand;

To look into your loving face,
And see the roses on your cheeks,
To note the glow and matchless grace,
The living eloquence that speaks

Of native mettle in the man,
That sends him forth to do and dare,
With “menu” spelled American—
Our Alma Mater's “bill of fare.”

And so we come from many a field,
From town and city far and near,
To trace again your storied shield,
And read once more our title clear;

To hail the fair and crowning arch,
The widening portal of your fame,
To note the ever onward march
Of steadfast Yale with newer name;

A University, in truth,
That meets the people's high demand,
A fountain of eternal youth,
The pride and glory of the land.

So may we come for many a year,
Through smiles and tears with spirits blithe,
A loyal band of classmates dear,
Till Time for us hangs up his scythe.