| WHEN I was a boy at college, | |
| Filling up with classic knowledge, | |
| Frequently I wondered why | |
| Old Professor Demas Bentley | |
| Used to praise so eloquently | 5 |
| "Opera Horatii." | |
| |
| Toiling on a season longer | |
| Till my reasoning powers got stronger, | |
| As my observation grew, | |
| I became convinced that mellow, | 10 |
| Massic-loving poet fellow, | |
| Horace, knew a thing or two. | |
| |
| Yes, we sophomores figured duly | |
| That, if we appraised him truly, | |
| Horace must have been a brick; | 15 |
| And no wonder that with ranting | |
| Rhymes he went a-gallivanting | |
| Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! | |
| |
| For that pink of female gender | |
| Tall and shapely was, and slender, | 20 |
| Plump of neck and bust and arms; | |
| While the raiment that invested | |
| Her so jealously suggested | |
| Certain more potential charms. | |
| |
| Those dark eyes of hers that fired him, | 25 |
| Those sweet accents that inspired him, | |
| And her crown of glorious hair,— | |
| These things baffle my description: | |
| I should have a fit conniption | |
| If I tried; so I forbear. | 30 |
| |
| Maybe Lydia had her betters; | |
| Anyway, this man of letters | |
| Took that charmer as his pick. | |
| Glad—yes, glad I am to know it! | |
| I, a fin de siècle poet, | 35 |
| Sympathize with Lydia Dick! | |
| |
| Often in my arbor shady | |
| I fall thinking of that lady, | |
| And the pranks she used to play; | |
| And I 'm cheered,—for all we sages | 40 |
| Joy when from those distant ages | |
| Lydia dances down our way. | |
| |
| Otherwise some folks might wonder, | |
| With good reason, why in thunder | |
| Learned professors, dry and prim, | 45 |
| Find such solace in the giddy | |
| Pranks that Horace played with Liddy | |
| Or that Liddy played on him. | |
| |
| Still this world of ours rejoices | |
| In those ancient singing voices, | 50 |
| And our hearts beat high and quick, | |
| To the cadence of old Tiber | |
| Murmuring praise of roistering Liber | |
| And of charming Lydia Dick. | |
| |
| Still Digentia, downward flowing, | 55 |
| Prattleth to the roses blowing | |
| By the dark, deserted grot. | |
| Still Soracte, looming lonely, | |
| Watcheth for the coming only | |
| Of a ghost that cometh not. | 60 |
