Within these walls is bartered sleep;
The humble scholar's quiet lot
With dreams of wealth is troubled Nott.
While poring o'er the midnight lamp,
In rooms too cold, and sometimes damp,
O man, who land and cash hast got,
Thy life of ease we envy Nott.
Our troubles here are light and few;—
An empty purse when bills fall due,
A locker, without e'er a shot,—