If five thousand lost years have not worked as you planned,

It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Lovers, who sigh for the heart of a maid,

And for forty-four years have pursued,

If two scores of young years have not taught you your trade,

It is time you began to conclude.

Ye Doctors, who claim to cure every ill,

And so much of mock learning exude,

If the Comma Bacillus still laughs at your pill,

It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Maidens of Fifty who lonely abide,

Yet who heartily scout solitude,

If Jack with his whiskers is not at your side,

It is time to begin to conclude.

Ye Spaniards, akin to the Mexican mule,

And who have not fair Cuba subdued,

After three bloody years of your miscreant rule,

It is time you began to conclude.

We commend to your mind Bill McKinley's big toe

In a boot that is rugged and rude,

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