The Epigram

Here go at last, all yelling to the town, A band of youths to Judson’s too well known; Fair science ever met their darkest frown, And foul intemperance marked them for her own.

Small is their bounty, but “a drink” they chime, As round the crowded counter many jam; Each gives to Judson (all he has) a dime, Each gets from him (’tis all he wants) a dram.

January, 1868.