Here you will find the Poem A Song Of of poet Oliver Wendell Holmes
THE summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers, The golden light is waking On Harvard's ancient towers; The sun is in the sky That must see us do or die, Ere it shine on the line Of the CLASS OF '29. At last the day is ended, The tutor screws no more, By doubt and fear attended Each hovers round the door, Till the good old Praeses cries, While the tears stand in his eyes, 'You have passed, and are classed With the Boys of '29.' Not long are they in making The college halls their own, Instead of standing shaking, Too bashful to be known; But they kick the Seniors' shins Ere the second week begins, When they stray in the way Of the BOYS OF '29. If a jolly set is trolling The last _Der Freischutz_ airs, Or a 'cannon bullet' rolling Comes bouncing down the stairs, The tutors, looking out, Sigh, 'Alas! there is no doubt, 'T is the noise of the Boys Of the CLASS OF '29.' Four happy years together, By storm and sunshine tried, In changing wind and weather, They rough it side by side, Till they hear their Mother cry, 'You are fledged, and you must fly,' And the bell tolls the knell Of the days of '29. Since then, in peace or trouble, Full many a year has rolled, And life has counted double The days that then we told; Yet we'll end as we've begun, For though scattered, we are one, While each year sees us here, Round the board of '29. Though fate may throw between us The mountains or the sea, No time shall ever wean us, No distance set us free; But around the yearly board, When the flaming pledge is poured, It shall claim every name On the roll of '29. To yonder peaceful ocean That glows with sunset fires, Shall reach the warm emotion This welcome day inspires, Beyond the ridges cold Where a brother toils for gold, Till it shine through the mine Round the Boy of '29. If one whom fate has broken Shall lift a moistened eye, We'll say, before he 's spoken-- 'Old Classmate, don't you cry! Here, take the purse I hold, There 's a tear upon the gold-- It was mine-it is thine-- A'n't we BOYS OF '29?' As nearer still and nearer The fatal stars appear, The living shall be dearer With each encircling year, Till a few old men shall say, 'We remember 't is the day-- Let it pass with a glass For the CLASS OF '29.' As one by one is falling Beneath the leaves or snows, Each memory still recalling, The broken ring shall close, Till the nightwinds softly pass O'er the green and growing grass, Where it waves on the graves Of the BOYS OF '29!