Imatges de pÓgina

And moans of infants that bemoan their fate, In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, Which, all i 'the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.

For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,

And some for Doctors of Divinitie,

Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,

And soe win academical degree;

But some are bred for service of the sea,

Howbeit, their store of learning is but small,
For mickle waste he counteth it would be
To stock a head with bookish wares at all,
Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon ball.

Six babes he sways,-some little and some big,
Divided into classes six ;-alsoe,

He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig,
That in the College fareth to and fro,
And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,
And eke the learned rudiments they scan,
And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,-
Hereafter to be shown in caravan,

And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.

Alsoe, he schools for some tame familiar fowls,
Whereof, above his head, some two or three
Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls,
But on the branches of no living tree,

And overlook the learned family;

While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,

Meanwhile with serious eye, he makes research

In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge-now a birch.

No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,

Such as would magisterial hams imbed,

But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,

Secure in high authority and dread;
Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head,
And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays,

Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
And stand abroad in many several ways;-
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.

And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;
His nose, it is a coral to the view;
Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,-

For much he loves his native mountain dew;-
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,

A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.

As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short
As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales;
But underneath he had no vest, nor aught.

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Even as thorough storms the soonest slack, For grief and beef in adverse ways incline, This keeps, and that decays, when duly soaked in brine.

Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,
The Dominie lays ope the learned page;
(So be it called) although he doth expound
Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;
Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age,
How Romulus was bred in savage wood,

By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage; And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.

Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,

How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;
And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,
Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown:
And eke the bard, that sung of their renown.
In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn,
He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down.
Because, at once, in seven cities born;
And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn,

Anon, through old Mythology he goes,
Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows
How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,
Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;
But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope
Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,

And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did groupe

From such quaint themes he turns, at last aside,
To new philosophies, that still are green,

And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide

The wheels of great political machine;

If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,

And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet; How many pigs be born, to each spalpeen; And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!

Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,
That stood around with serious look intense,
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,
Which they had opened to his eloquence,
As if their hearing were a three-fold sense.
But now the current of his words is done,
And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,
In future time, with any mother's son !

It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.

Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,
The hour is come to lay aside their lore;
The cheerful pedagogue perceives it soon,

And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,-and four
Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,

All blythe and boisterous,-but leave two more,
With Reading made Uneasy for a task,

To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,

Like sportive Elfins, on the verdent sod,
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,
That doth not hurt, but kiss the sole unshod,
So soothly kind is Erin to her own!

And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,-
For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow;
Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone !
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,

And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!

But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift;
Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;

· But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift
His college gown, because of solar glow,
And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:
Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean.
Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,

Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,
With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.

And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,
Linked each to each by labour, like a bee;

Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs ;Would there were many more such wights as he, To sway each capital academie

Of Cam and Isis, for alack! at each

There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,

That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,

But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!

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