When I was a boy at college, Filling up with classic knowledge, Frequently I wondered why Old Professor Demas Bently
Used to praise so eloquently “Opera Horatii.” Toiling on a season longer Till my reasoning power got stronger,
As my observation grew, I became convinced that mellow, Massic-loving poet fellow Horace knew a thing or two
Yes, we sophomores figured duly That, if we appraised him truly, Horace must have been a brick; And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting Round with sprightly Lydia Dick! For that pink of female gender Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms; While the raiment that invested Her so jealously suggested Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of her that fired him — Those sweet accents that inspired him, And her crown of glorious hair — These things baffle my description;
I should have a fit conniption If I tried — so I forbear! May be Lydia had her betters; Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick; Glad — yes, glad I am to know it! I, a fin de siecle poet, Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady I fall thinking of that lady And the pranks she used to play; And I'm cheered — for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages Lydia dances down our way. Otherwise some folks might wonder With good reason why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim, Find such solace in the giddy Pranks that Horace played with Liddy Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices In those ancient singing voices, And our hearts beat high and quick, To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber And of charming Lydia Dick. Still, Digentia, downward flowing, Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot; Still, Soracte, looming lonely, Watcheth for the coming only Of a ghost that cometh not.
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