A sweet life and an idle
He lives from year to year,
Unknowing bit or bridle
( There are no proctors here ),
Free as the flying swallow
Which Ida's Prince would follow
If but his bones were hollow,
Until the end draws near.
Then comes a Dies Irae,
When full of misery
And torments worse than fiery
He crams for his degree;
And hitherto unvexed books,
Dry lectures, abstracts, text-books,
Perplexing and perplexed books,
Make life seem vanity.