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.