JUNIOR DICK has reformed, they say, -
A terrible midnight "grind" is he,
He takes no more his nights at the play,
And his hour at billiards every day,
But is working for his degree.
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In his room in Weld there are brilliant rugs,
There is bric-a-brac over the low bookcase.
He gazes at curious signs and jugs,
The spoils of midnight raids, and mugs
Won in many a race.
Dick is nodding, and to the floor
Lets Pliny's Epistles fall lightly down.
He dreams of Sophomore days once more,
Of the triumphs of Harvard bat and oar,
And her foot-ball renown.
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