Where a student has never a brain to save,
Worn out by this extra work.
Professors with purpose stern,
To whom complaints are vain,
No sources of history you exhaust,
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But a weary human brain.
Grind, grind, grind!
With never a one to save,
Digging at once with a pen and a spade
For a thesis and early grave.
Grind, grind, grind!
Autumn and winter and spring;
And grind, grind, grind!
When the Christmas joy-bells ring.
While the holly-wreath and cross,
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