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Oliver Wendell Holmes - The Boys
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HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
          If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
          Hang the Almanac`s cheat and the Catalogue`s spite!
          Old Time is a liar! We`re twenty to-night!

          We`re twenty! We`re twenty! Who says we are more?
          He`s tipsy,— young jackanapes!— show him the door!
          "Gray temples at twenty?"— Yes ! white if we please;
          Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there`s nothing can freeze!

          Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
          Look close,— you will see not a sign of a flake!
          We want some new garlands for those we have shed,—
          And these are white roses in place of the red.

          We`ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,
          Of talking (in public) as if we were old:—
          That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;"
          It`s a neat little fiction,— of course it`s all fudge.

          That fellow`s the "Speaker,"— the one on the right;
          "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
          That`s our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
          There`s the "Reverend" What`s his name?— don`t make me laugh.

          That boy with the grave mathematical look
          Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
          And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true!
          So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

          There`s a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
          That could harness a team with a logical chain;
          When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
          We called him "The Justice," but now he`s "The Squire."

          And there`s a nice youngster of excellent pith,—
          Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
          But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,
          Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

          You hear that boy laughing?— You think he`s all fun;
          But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
          The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
          And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

          Yes, we`re boys, —always playing with tongue or with pen,—
          And I sometimes have asked,— Shall we ever be men?
          Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
          Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

          Then here`s to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!
          The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
          And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
          Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!
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