Good Fellows All.

"Strike the concertina's melancholy string;
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything;
Let the piano's martial blast rouse the echoes of the past,
For of Gilly, Prince of Fellows, do I sing."

— Gilbert.

Air—"The Deathless Army."

The sun had gone from the field of play,
Our hopes had fled with its parting ray,
For the stronger side had won the day,
But yet we were still undaunted.
Freshmen, Grads and Veterans old,
Played and fought for the green and gold,
With a pass and a kick and a whizzing stick,
In the fight for our Alma Mater.

Chorus.
Playing for the dear old College,
Veteran and raw recruit,
And its run and pass and collar,
And its stop and hit and shoot.

Full fifty years had been gone before
I stood in the College halls once more,
And a volume lying there I saw,
With its pages torn an tattered.
Heavily mustily reeking old,
Moths had eaten and biting mould.
Yet names stood out in their lettered gold,
Of the men who had fought for college.

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And as I looked on the letters' blaze,
Remembrance came of College days.
Dimly I saw through a golden haze,
Every face that was once familiar.
But the men were scattered far and wide,
Who'd played the game out side by side,
Yet the same old banner still I spied,
The Green and the Gold of College.

Chorus.
Fighting for the dear old College,
Heeding not reward or pay,
Was the cry of the men before us,
Let it be our cry to-day.

—Willonia.