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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.

We are far from the mount of battle,^[1]
Where the wreck first met mine eye,
And now where twin forts^[2] in the olden time rose,
Through the Race, like a swift steed, our little bark goes,
And our bugle's notes echo through Anthony’s Nose,
So wrecks and rhymes—good-by.

1. Stony Point.
2. Forts Clinton and Montgomery.