A sick-bed is not its goal;
Prig who rich plum-pudding spurnest,
Thou art destitute of soul.
Not mere "sapping," which means sorrow,
Is youth's destined end or way:
But—to think that each to-morrow
Brings us nearer Christmas Day!
Terms are long, and Vacs. are fleeting,
And our "tums," though big and brave,
Know that there's an end to eating