Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 4).djvu/427

 Nothing but proses and reps and con!
 * O for the future when I'm a man,
 * With no more Virgil to learn and scan,

And no one to say to me, "Please, go on!" Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
 * When your heart will thrill
 * At the thought of the Hill,
 * And the proses so long and the con so dry.

"Raining in torrents again," they say:
 * The field is a slippery, miry marsh;
 * But duty is duty, though sometimes harsh,

And "footer" is "footer" whatever the day. Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
 * When your heart will thrill
 * At the thought of the Hill,
 * And the slippery fields and the raining sky.

Five hundred faces alive with glee!
 * Trials are over; the term is done,
 * With all its glory and toil and fun;

And boyhood's a dream of the past for me! Chorus. Yet the time may come, though you scarce know why,
 * When your eyes will fill
 * At the thought of the Hill,
 * And the wild regret of the last good-bye.