Musa Burschicosa :: :: University of Virginia Library

Some book-worms will sit and will study
Alone, with their dear selves alone,
Till their brain like a mill-pond grows muddy
And their heart is as cold as a stone.
But listen to what I now say, boys,
Who know the fine art to unbend,
All labour without any play, boys,
Makes Jack a dull boy in the end.

There's Moodie, no doubt he's a fellow
Of heart, and of head has no lack,
But his cheek, like a lemon, is yellow,
And he bends like a camel his back.
I tell him the worst of all evils
Is cram; and to live on this plan
Is to nourish a host of blue devils,
To plague him when he is a man.

Sure Solomon knew what was fitting
To keep a man juicy and fresh,
And he says there is nothing like sitting
O'er books to bring grief to the flesh.
From quarto to folio creeping,
Some record of folly to gain,
He says that your red eyes are keeping
Dull watch o'er the night oil in vain.

I guess you have heard many sermons
Not wiser at all than my rhymes,
But perhaps you don't know what determines
Their sense to be nonsense sometimes.
Though bright the great truth may be beaming,
Through dimness it struggles in vain
Of vapours from stomach upsteaming
Unhealthy, that poison the brain.

Beside her old wheel when 't is birring,
A spinster may sit and may croon,
But a mettlesome youth should be stirring,
Like Hermes with wings to his shoon;
With a club, or a bat, or a mallet,
Making sport with the ball on the green,
Or roaming about with a wallet,
Where steamboats and tourists are seen.

Then rise from the lean-visaged study,
That drains all the sap from your brains;
Give your face to the breeze and grow ruddy
With blood that exults in the veins.
Trust me,—for I know what I say, boys,—
And use the fine art to unbend,
All work, with no season of play, boys,
Makes Jack a dull boy in the end!