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'Tis a custom quite honored, I own,
To bow to the muses of yore,
Who live in inanimate stone,
Immortal in verse evermore;
Methinks it a terrible bore
The ink of one's leisure to dip
On damsels who lived long before-
The muse has a smile on her lip.
Terpsichore, dizzy old crone,
Who foots it so sly on the floor,
Has feet which are worn to the bone
And toeses eternally sore.
Calliope - well, if she wore
A ghost of a gown on her hip,
But she don't - so away with this lore-
The muse has a smile on her lip.
Melpomene, too, it is known,
Claims something from rhymthical store,
Which, if she were muscle and bone,
I wouldn't exactly ignore.
It's a fact very much to deplore
She hasn't a dress that can rip-
She's cut from quarry's cold core-
The muse has a smile on her lip.
ENVOY.Collegiate poets, I pour
This draught for your genius to sip;
Away with the Nine, and adore
The muse with a smile on her lip.
[Read at the Inter-Collegiate Press Convention, New York, Dec. 27, 1882.]
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