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THE SONG OF THE DIG.

Cards, toy-shops, the daily press,

And everything flings taunts at me

Of the long two weeks' recess.

Oh! but for one short day

To feel as I used to feel,

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When we flew o'er the glittering ice, shod well

With the narrow winged steel.

Oh, that the thesis imposer

Could feel some keen remorse,

Perceiving something worthy thought

Outside of his special course.

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