III

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.