Song of the Classes
Oh, you are the seniors, you're old and you're through,
You're sad and you're tired-a moldy old crew.
You've worked and you've slaved and we hope you'll go far
From this grand institution, this school of Bryn Mawr.
Oh, you are the sophomores who sit over there.
You think you're quite smooth with your ways debonair,
With trips to the Greeks and to Fords for a beer,
But you ain't seen nothing like we were last year.
Oh, you are the freshmen, adolescent and new.
A year at Bryn Mawr hasn't done much for you.
Just wait till you're out of the difficult age,
Some day you may reach our superior stage.
Oh, we are the juniors, the best of the lot!
There isn't a damn thing that we haven't got.
The male population falls down at our feet.
We've all got cum laude, say, boy ain't we neat!
So, it's one, two, and three, four, you all fall in line
In back of the juniors, who beat out the time.
Be thankful you have us for your guiding star
At this grand institution, this school of Bryn Mawr!