Thy mournful eye in upturned gaze doth look

to Yale-font “Information” up above

as though some fool thy wrinkled face forsook,

denying thee a bulldog’s share of love.

Why lie thee there with legs a-splayed behind?

A guard hath no such pathos in his gaze.

Yet what else would my dear Yale send to mind

The record of my halcyon college days?

A student but for one semester more,

no welcome from thy frown do I receive.

Thy doleful stare doth company implore;

in truth thine eye seems sad I soon shall leave.

O! jowly hound, woe that the end is near!

Small comfort ’tis, to still have half a year.