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208 And let them rest together,
 * The maid, the boat, the boy,

Why sing of matrimony now,
 * In this brief hour of joy?

Our time may come, and let it—
 * ’Tis enough for us now to know

That our bark will reach West Point ere long,
 * If the breeze keep on to blow.

We have Hudibras and Milton,
 * Wines, flutes, and a bugle-horn,

And a dozen cigars are lingering yet
 * Of the thousand of yester-morn.

They have gone, like life’s first pleasures,
 * And faded in smoke away,

And the few that are left are like bosom friends
 * In the evening of our day.