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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,
Six babes he sways,-some little and some big,
He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig,
And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.
Alsoe, he schools for some tame familiar fowls,
And overlook the learned family;
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
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;
Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
For much he loves his native mountain dew;-
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.
As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short
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,
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;
Anon, through old Mythology he goes,
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,
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,
It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.
Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,
And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,-and four
All blythe and boisterous,-but leave two more,
To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,
Like sportive Elfins, on the verdent sod,
And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,-
And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!
But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift;
· But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift
Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,
And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,
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!