_Dean Swift._

LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

Oh, the Roman was a rogue,
He erat was, you bettum;
He ran his automobilus
And smoked his cigarettum.
He wore a diamond studibus
And elegant cravattum,
A maxima cum laude shirt
And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-haec-hoc,
And bet on games and equi;
At times he won at others though,
He got it in the nequi;
He winked, (quo usque tandem?) at
Puellas on the Forum,
And sometimes, too, he even made
Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen
At combats gladiatorial
And ate enough to feed
Ten boarders at Memorial;
He often went on sprees
And said, on starting homus,
"Hic labour--opus est,
Oh, where's my hic--hic--domus?"

Although he lived in Rome,--
Of all the arts the middle--
He was, (excuse the phrase,)
A horrid individ'l;
Ah, what a different thing
Was the homo (dative, hominy)
Of far away B. C.
From us of Anno Domini.

_Thomas R. Ybarra._

A NEW SONG

OF NEW SIMILES

My passion is as mustard strong;
I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
I drink, yet can't forget her;
For though as drunk as David's sow
I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake, with sighs and care,
Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
And soft as silk my skin;
My cheeks as fat as butter grown,
But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat,
Am kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach
Is busy as a bee;
Hearts sound as any bell or roach,
Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail
The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door-nail
Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears,
O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien,
No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
And not the sun is brighter.

A