Lo! 'tis a gala Buck Night
Within these joyous present days!
A Royal throng, bewinged, bedight
In caps, and drowned in cheers,
Sit in a stadium, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the organ breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Umpires, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the strike zone to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its starter chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through the on-deck circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madson, and more of Wade,
And Holland the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blue and Royal thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The scouts become its food,
And analysts sob at vermin drafts
In Terrance Gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The fireworks, a festive air,
Come down with the rush of a storm,
While the Angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the comedy, "Royals,"
And its hero, the Conqueror Moore.