(Written after a Day's Work on a Thesis for History.)
WITH fingers inky and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A student sat in a lonely room,
With a towel about his head.
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Grind, grind, grind!
From books both little and big;
And, cudgelling ever his weary mind,
He sang The Song of the Dig.
Grind, grind, grind!
The thesis is but begun;
Grind, grind, grind!
My work will never be done.
It 's - Oh! to be a slave
To the desk of a merchant's clerk,
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