ve been!
With here a smile and there a tear,
How many changes we have seen!
How many hearts have ceased to beat,
How many eyes have ceased to shine,
How many friends will never meet,
Since first we met, old pipe of mine!

Though here and there the road was deep,
And now and then the rain would fall;
We managed every time to keep
A sturdy forehead to them all!
And even when she left my side,
We didn't wait to fret or pine,
Oh, no; we said the world was wide,
And luck would turn, old pipe of mine!

CANNON SONG.

And it has turned since you and I
Set out to face the world alone;
And, in a garret near the sky,
Had scarce a crust to call our own,
But many a banquet, Barmecide;
And many a dream of hope divine,
Lie buried in the moaning tide,
That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!

But prosing isn't quite the thing,
And so, I guess, I'll give it up:
Just wait a moment while I sing;
We'll have another parting cup,
And then to bed. The stars are low;
Yon sickly moon has ceased to shine;
So here she goes, and off we go
To Slumberland, old pipe of mine!

JOHN J. GORMLEY.

CANNON SONG.

Come, seniors, come, and fill your pipes,
Your richest incense raise;
Let's take a smoke, a parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!

_Chorus_. For good old by-gone days,
We'll smoke for good old by-gone days!
We'll take a smoke, a parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!

We'll crown the cannon with a cloud,
We'll celebrate its praise;
Recalling _its_ old parting smoke,
For good old by-gone days!

We'll smoke to these we leave behind
In devious college ways;
We'll smoke to songs we've sung before,
In good old by-gone days.

We'll smoke to _Alma Mater's_ name;
She loves the cloud we raise!
For well she knows the "biggest guns"
Are in the coming days!

We'll smoke the times, the good old times,
When we were called _fire_!
Their light shall blaze in memory,
Till the lamp of life expire!

Then let each smoking pipe be broke,--
Hurrah for coming days!
We'll take a march, a merry march,
To meet the coming days!

H.P. PECK.

TOBACCO.

The Indian weed, withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay,
Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily-white,