1 Attind ye lasses av Swate Parnassus An’ wipe my burnin’ tears away For I’m declinin’ a chanst av dinin’ Wid the bhoys at Yale on the fourteenth May. 2 The leadin’ fayture will be liter-ature, (Av a moral nature as is just an’ right) For their light an’ leadin’ are engaged in readin’ Me immortial Wooruks from dawn till night. 3 They’ve made a club there an’ staked out grub there Wid plates an’ napkins in a joyuous row, An’ they’d think ut splendid if I attended An’ so would I–but I cannot go. 4 The honust fact is that daily practise Av rowlin’ inkpots, the same as me Conshumes me hours in the Muses’ bowers An’ laves me divil a day to spree. 5 Whin you grow oulder an’ skin your shoulder At the World’s great wheel in your chosen line, Ye’ll find your chances, as Time advances, For takin’ a lark are as slim as mine. 6 But I’m digressin’. Accept my blessin’, An’ remember what ould King Solomon said, That youth is ructious an’ whiskey’s fluxious, An there’s nothin’ certain but the mornin’ “head.”
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