In this Album you may trace—
If not the lineaments of face—
Here, at least, you will find
Photographs of the mind.
Some in earnest, some in fun,
Some do lecture, some do pun;
Here the maiden and the youth,
Each proclaim some precious truth.
And there is some fine pages—
Written by maturer ages—
They show that time is brief,
That soon comes sere and yellow leaf.
But we must cease, ’ere your ire
Be aroused ’gainst McIntyre,
Who doth reside in Ingersoll—
Perhaps you’ll think that he is droll.