A Boston gentleman declares,
By all the gods above, below,
That our degenerate sons and heirs
Must let their Greek and Latin go!
Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore,
A dispensation harsh as that;
What! wipe away the sweets of yore;
The dear "_amo, amas, amat?_"
The sweetest hour the student knows
Is not when poring over French,
Or twisted in Teutonic throes,
Upon a hard collegiate bench;
'Tis when on roots and kais and gars
He feeds his soul and feels it glow,
Or when his mind transcends the stars
With "_Zoa mou, sas agapo!_"
So give our bright, ambitious boys
An inkling of these pleasures, too--
A little smattering of the joys
Their dead and buried fathers knew;
And let them sing--while glorying that
Their sires so sang, long years ago--
The songs "_amo, amas, amat_"
And "_Zoa mou, sas agapo!_"
--Eugene Field
[Footnote in original book (published 1916):
Copyright. Used by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons.]