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WHAT horrid dream is this I have,
What visions round me creep,
Of dancing, and of crowded rooms,
Thus breaking off my sleep?
I see great hills of chicken-pie,
And tuns of lemonade,
And soda-fountains brimming full,
Through which I seem to wade.
And coffee-cups and pretty girls,
And sherbet white and red,
And salad by the bucketful,
That spy in every spread.
And now great clouds of musty smoke
Upon my senses steal;
And when I think of Class-Day's joys,
Ah me! how ill I feel!
W. R. T.Saturday, 10 A. M.
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