I.Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to thinkHow Learning doth in rugged states abide,And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!II.This College looketh South and West alsoe,Because it hath a cast in windows twain;Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blowThorough transparent holes in every pane,Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole againWith nether garments, which his thrift doth teachTo stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rainStormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,'Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.III.And in the midst a little door there is,Whereon a board that doth congratulateWith painted letters, red as blood I wis,Thus written,'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.'And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,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.IV.For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,And some for Doctors of Divinitie,Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,And so 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 beTo stock a head with bookish wares at all,Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball.V.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.VI.Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,Whereof, above his head, some two or threeSit 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 researchIn leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.VII.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.VIII.And, underneath, a pair of shaggy browsO'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,That inward giblet of a fowl, which showsA mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;His nose,—it is a coral to the view;Well nourished 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.IX.As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin shortAs Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales;But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,So that the wind his airy breast assails;Below, he wears the nether garb of males,Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—Thence further down the native red prevails,Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:—Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.X.Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lapHis function in a magisterial gown,That shows more countries in it than a map,—Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,Besides some blots, standing for country-town;And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,He turns the garment of the other side,Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!XI.And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,That look for shady or for sunny noon,Within his visage, like an almanack,—His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,And with forebodings of near wrath and stormsThey sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.XII.Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat'Corduroy Colloquy,'—or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'—Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seatMore sodden, tho' already made of sod,For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,He never spoils the child and spares the rod,But spoils the rod and never spares the child,And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.XIII.But, surely, the just sky will never winkAt men who take delight in childish throe,And stripe the nether-urchin like a pinkOr tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,By useless birches, that forlorn recess,Which is no holiday, in Pit below,Will hell not seem designed for their distress,—A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?XIV.Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome useOf needful discipline, in due degree.Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,And Learning's help be used for infamie,By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.XV.But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarmThe sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,And cackling chorus with the human scream;Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam,In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win.XVI.No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof;Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!XVII.Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,When first the scholar lists in learning's train,And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,For this the while one stripling's sluices drainAnother weepeth over chilblains fell,Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!XVIII.Anon a third, for his delicious root,Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,So soon is human violence afoot,So hardly is the harmless biter bit!Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely witAnd mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone,But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.XIX.For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,Smites his scald head, that is already sore,—Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,That still, with backward fist he strives to dry;Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.XX.So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,And with his natural untender knack,By new distress, bids former grievance cease,Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,That sets the mournful visage all awrack;Yet soon the childish countenance will shineEven as thorough storms the soonest slack,For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.XXI.Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,The Dominie lays ope the learned page(So be it called); although he doth expoundWithout 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.XXII.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 collie, wand'ring up and down:Because, at once, in seven cities born;And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.XXIII.Anon, through old Mythology he goes,Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,But shuns their scandalous amours, and showsHow Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;But thro' the clouds of the Olympic copeBeheld 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 grope.XXIV.From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,To new philosophies, that still are green,And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guideThe 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!XXV.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 threefold 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.XXVI.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 fourSnatch 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.XXVII.Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant 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 shillelagh small, break one another's brow!XXVIII.But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;But, first of all, with tender hand doth shiftHis 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.XXIX.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 academieOf Cam and Isis, for, alack! at eachThere 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!
I.Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to thinkHow Learning doth in rugged states abide,And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!II.This College looketh South and West alsoe,Because it hath a cast in windows twain;Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blowThorough transparent holes in every pane,Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole againWith nether garments, which his thrift doth teachTo stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rainStormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,'Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.III.And in the midst a little door there is,Whereon a board that doth congratulateWith painted letters, red as blood I wis,Thus written,'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.'And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,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.IV.For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,And some for Doctors of Divinitie,Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,And so 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 beTo stock a head with bookish wares at all,Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball.V.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.VI.Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,Whereof, above his head, some two or threeSit 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 researchIn leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.VII.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.VIII.And, underneath, a pair of shaggy browsO'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,That inward giblet of a fowl, which showsA mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;His nose,—it is a coral to the view;Well nourished 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.IX.As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin shortAs Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales;But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,So that the wind his airy breast assails;Below, he wears the nether garb of males,Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—Thence further down the native red prevails,Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:—Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.X.Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lapHis function in a magisterial gown,That shows more countries in it than a map,—Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,Besides some blots, standing for country-town;And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,He turns the garment of the other side,Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!XI.And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,That look for shady or for sunny noon,Within his visage, like an almanack,—His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,And with forebodings of near wrath and stormsThey sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.XII.Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat'Corduroy Colloquy,'—or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'—Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seatMore sodden, tho' already made of sod,For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,He never spoils the child and spares the rod,But spoils the rod and never spares the child,And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.XIII.But, surely, the just sky will never winkAt men who take delight in childish throe,And stripe the nether-urchin like a pinkOr tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,By useless birches, that forlorn recess,Which is no holiday, in Pit below,Will hell not seem designed for their distress,—A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?XIV.Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome useOf needful discipline, in due degree.Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,And Learning's help be used for infamie,By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.XV.But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarmThe sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,And cackling chorus with the human scream;Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam,In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win.XVI.No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof;Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!XVII.Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,When first the scholar lists in learning's train,And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,For this the while one stripling's sluices drainAnother weepeth over chilblains fell,Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!XVIII.Anon a third, for his delicious root,Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,So soon is human violence afoot,So hardly is the harmless biter bit!Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely witAnd mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone,But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.XIX.For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,Smites his scald head, that is already sore,—Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,That still, with backward fist he strives to dry;Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.XX.So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,And with his natural untender knack,By new distress, bids former grievance cease,Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,That sets the mournful visage all awrack;Yet soon the childish countenance will shineEven as thorough storms the soonest slack,For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.XXI.Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,The Dominie lays ope the learned page(So be it called); although he doth expoundWithout 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.XXII.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 collie, wand'ring up and down:Because, at once, in seven cities born;And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.XXIII.Anon, through old Mythology he goes,Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,But shuns their scandalous amours, and showsHow Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;But thro' the clouds of the Olympic copeBeheld 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 grope.XXIV.From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,To new philosophies, that still are green,And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guideThe 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!XXV.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 threefold 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.XXVI.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 fourSnatch 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.XXVII.Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant 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 shillelagh small, break one another's brow!XXVIII.But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;But, first of all, with tender hand doth shiftHis 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.XXIX.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 academieOf Cam and Isis, for, alack! at eachThere 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!
Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to thinkHow Learning doth in rugged states abide,And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!
Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think
How Learning doth in rugged states abide,
And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;
Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,
In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,
In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!
This College looketh South and West alsoe,Because it hath a cast in windows twain;Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blowThorough transparent holes in every pane,Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole againWith nether garments, which his thrift doth teachTo stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rainStormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,'Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.
This College looketh South and West alsoe,
Because it hath a cast in windows twain;
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow
Thorough transparent holes in every pane,
Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach
To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain
Stormeth, he puts, 'once more unto the breach,'
Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.
And in the midst a little door there is,Whereon a board that doth congratulateWith painted letters, red as blood I wis,Thus written,'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.'And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,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.
And in the midst a little door there is,
Whereon a board that doth congratulate
With painted letters, red as blood I wis,
Thus written,
'CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE.'
And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,
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 so 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 beTo stock a head with bookish wares at all,Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball.
For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,
And some for Doctors of Divinitie,
Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,
And so 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 knocked 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.
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 some tame familiar fowls,Whereof, above his head, some two or threeSit 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 researchIn leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.
Alsoe, he schools 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.
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 browsO'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,That inward giblet of a fowl, which showsA mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;His nose,—it is a coral to the view;Well nourished 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.
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 nourished 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 shortAs Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales;But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,So that the wind his airy breast assails;Below, he wears the nether garb of males,Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—Thence further down the native red prevails,Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:—Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.
As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short
As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales;
But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,
So that the wind his airy breast assails;
Below, he wears the nether garb of males,
Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—
Thence further down the native red prevails,
Of his own naked fleecy hosiery:—
Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.
Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lapHis function in a magisterial gown,That shows more countries in it than a map,—Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,Besides some blots, standing for country-town;And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,He turns the garment of the other side,Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!
Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap
His function in a magisterial gown,
That shows more countries in it than a map,—
Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,
Besides some blots, standing for country-town;
And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;
But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,
He turns the garment of the other side,
Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!
And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,That look for shady or for sunny noon,Within his visage, like an almanack,—His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,And with forebodings of near wrath and stormsThey sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.
And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,
That look for shady or for sunny noon,
Within his visage, like an almanack,—
His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:
But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,
With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,
Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,
And with forebodings of near wrath and storms
They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.
Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat'Corduroy Colloquy,'—or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'—Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seatMore sodden, tho' already made of sod,For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,He never spoils the child and spares the rod,But spoils the rod and never spares the child,And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.
Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat
'Corduroy Colloquy,'—or 'Ki, Kæ, Kod,'—
Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat
More sodden, tho' already made of sod,
For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—
Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,
He never spoils the child and spares the rod,
But spoils the rod and never spares the child,
And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.
But, surely, the just sky will never winkAt men who take delight in childish throe,And stripe the nether-urchin like a pinkOr tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,By useless birches, that forlorn recess,Which is no holiday, in Pit below,Will hell not seem designed for their distress,—A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?
But, surely, the just sky will never wink
At men who take delight in childish throe,
And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink
Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;
Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,
By useless birches, that forlorn recess,
Which is no holiday, in Pit below,
Will hell not seem designed for their distress,—
A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?
Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome useOf needful discipline, in due degree.Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,And Learning's help be used for infamie,By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.
Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use
Of needful discipline, in due degree.
Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,
Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.
This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,
Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,
And Learning's help be used for infamie,
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,
In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.
But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarmThe sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,And cackling chorus with the human scream;Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam,In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win.
But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm
The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,
All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,
And cackling chorus with the human scream;
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam,
In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,
Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,
That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,
Nor seeks the pedagogue by other course to win.
No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof;Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!
No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—
Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof;
Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,
Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;
Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!
Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,When first the scholar lists in learning's train,And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,For this the while one stripling's sluices drainAnother weepeth over chilblains fell,Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!
Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,
When first the scholar lists in learning's train,
And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,
For this the while one stripling's sluices drain
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,
Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!
Anon a third, for his delicious root,Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,So soon is human violence afoot,So hardly is the harmless biter bit!Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely witAnd mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone,But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.
Anon a third, for his delicious root,
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,
So soon is human violence afoot,
So hardly is the harmless biter bit!
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit
And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,
Alack,—mischance comes seldomtimes alone,
But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.
For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,Smites his scald head, that is already sore,—Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,That still, with backward fist he strives to dry;Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.
For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,
Smites his scald head, that is already sore,—
Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,
And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,
That still, with backward fist he strives to dry;
Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,
Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.
So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,And with his natural untender knack,By new distress, bids former grievance cease,Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,That sets the mournful visage all awrack;Yet soon the childish countenance will shineEven as thorough storms the soonest slack,For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.
So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,
And with his natural untender knack,
By new distress, bids former grievance cease,
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,
That sets the mournful visage all awrack;
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,
For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,
This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd 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 expoundWithout 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.
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 collie, wand'ring up and down:Because, at once, in seven cities born;And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.
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 collie, 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 showsHow Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;But thro' the clouds of the Olympic copeBeheld 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 grope.
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 grope.
From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,To new philosophies, that still are green,And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guideThe 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!
From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,
To new philosophies, that still are green,
And shows what rail-roads 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 threefold 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.
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 threefold 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 fourSnatch 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.
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 verdant 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 shillelagh small, break one another's brow!
Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant 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 shillelagh 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 shiftHis 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.
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 academieOf Cam and Isis, for, alack! at eachThere 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!
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!
Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,For all that tend on sheep as drovers,Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,Each of the lass he call'd his dearBegan to carol loud and clear.First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,In the way of ancient shepherd men;Who thus alternate hitch'd in song,'All things by turns, and nothing long.'Huggins.Of all the girls about our place,There's one beats all in form and face;Search through all Great and Little BumpsteadYou'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.Duggins.To groves and streams I tell my flame;I make the cliffs repeat her name:When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!Huggins.When I am walking in the grove,I think of Peggy as I rove.I'd carve her name on every tree,But I don't know my A, B, C.Duggins.Whether I walk in hill or valley,I think of nothing else but Sally.I'd sing her praise, but I can singNo song, except 'God save the King.'Huggins.My Peggy does all nymphs excel,And all confess she bears the bell,—Where'er she goes swains flock together,Like sheep that follow the bellwether.Duggins.Sally is tall and not too straight,—Those very poplar shapes I hate;But something twisted like an S,—A crook becomes a shepherdess.Huggins.When Peggy's dog her arms emprison,I often wish my lot was hisn;How often I should stand and turn,To get a pat from hands like hern.Duggins.I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,To stand about and stare at she;But when I look, she turns and shies,And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes!Huggins.Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—Beneath her smile the garden grows;Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!Duggins.Where Sally goes it's always Spring,Her presence brightens everything;The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,It makes brass farthings look like guineas.Huggins.For Peggy I can have no joy,She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,As comfortless as sheep with ticks.Duggins.Sally is ripe as June or May,And yet as cold as Christmas day;For when she's asked to change her lot,Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.Huggins.Only with Peggy and with health,I'd never wish for state or wealth;Talking of having health and more pence,I'd drink her health if I had four pence.Duggins.Oh, how that day would seem to shine,If Sally's banns were read with mine;She cries, when such a wish I carry,'Marry come up!' but will not marry.
Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,For all that tend on sheep as drovers,Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,Each of the lass he call'd his dearBegan to carol loud and clear.First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,In the way of ancient shepherd men;Who thus alternate hitch'd in song,'All things by turns, and nothing long.'Huggins.Of all the girls about our place,There's one beats all in form and face;Search through all Great and Little BumpsteadYou'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.Duggins.To groves and streams I tell my flame;I make the cliffs repeat her name:When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!Huggins.When I am walking in the grove,I think of Peggy as I rove.I'd carve her name on every tree,But I don't know my A, B, C.Duggins.Whether I walk in hill or valley,I think of nothing else but Sally.I'd sing her praise, but I can singNo song, except 'God save the King.'Huggins.My Peggy does all nymphs excel,And all confess she bears the bell,—Where'er she goes swains flock together,Like sheep that follow the bellwether.Duggins.Sally is tall and not too straight,—Those very poplar shapes I hate;But something twisted like an S,—A crook becomes a shepherdess.Huggins.When Peggy's dog her arms emprison,I often wish my lot was hisn;How often I should stand and turn,To get a pat from hands like hern.Duggins.I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,To stand about and stare at she;But when I look, she turns and shies,And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes!Huggins.Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—Beneath her smile the garden grows;Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!Duggins.Where Sally goes it's always Spring,Her presence brightens everything;The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,It makes brass farthings look like guineas.Huggins.For Peggy I can have no joy,She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,As comfortless as sheep with ticks.Duggins.Sally is ripe as June or May,And yet as cold as Christmas day;For when she's asked to change her lot,Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.Huggins.Only with Peggy and with health,I'd never wish for state or wealth;Talking of having health and more pence,I'd drink her health if I had four pence.Duggins.Oh, how that day would seem to shine,If Sally's banns were read with mine;She cries, when such a wish I carry,'Marry come up!' but will not marry.
Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,For all that tend on sheep as drovers,Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,Each of the lass he call'd his dearBegan to carol loud and clear.First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,In the way of ancient shepherd men;Who thus alternate hitch'd in song,'All things by turns, and nothing long.'
Two swains or clowns—but call them swains—
While keeping flocks on Salisbury Plains,
For all that tend on sheep as drovers,
Are turned to songsters, or to lovers,
Each of the lass he call'd his dear
Began to carol loud and clear.
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then,
In the way of ancient shepherd men;
Who thus alternate hitch'd in song,
'All things by turns, and nothing long.'
Of all the girls about our place,There's one beats all in form and face;Search through all Great and Little BumpsteadYou'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.
Of all the girls about our place,
There's one beats all in form and face;
Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead
You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.
To groves and streams I tell my flame;I make the cliffs repeat her name:When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!
To groves and streams I tell my flame;
I make the cliffs repeat her name:
When I'm inspired by gills and noggins,
The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins!
When I am walking in the grove,I think of Peggy as I rove.I'd carve her name on every tree,But I don't know my A, B, C.
When I am walking in the grove,
I think of Peggy as I rove.
I'd carve her name on every tree,
But I don't know my A, B, C.
Whether I walk in hill or valley,I think of nothing else but Sally.I'd sing her praise, but I can singNo song, except 'God save the King.'
Whether I walk in hill or valley,
I think of nothing else but Sally.
I'd sing her praise, but I can sing
No song, except 'God save the King.'
My Peggy does all nymphs excel,And all confess she bears the bell,—Where'er she goes swains flock together,Like sheep that follow the bellwether.
My Peggy does all nymphs excel,
And all confess she bears the bell,—
Where'er she goes swains flock together,
Like sheep that follow the bellwether.
Sally is tall and not too straight,—Those very poplar shapes I hate;But something twisted like an S,—A crook becomes a shepherdess.
Sally is tall and not too straight,—
Those very poplar shapes I hate;
But something twisted like an S,—
A crook becomes a shepherdess.
When Peggy's dog her arms emprison,I often wish my lot was hisn;How often I should stand and turn,To get a pat from hands like hern.
When Peggy's dog her arms emprison,
I often wish my lot was hisn;
How often I should stand and turn,
To get a pat from hands like hern.
I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,To stand about and stare at she;But when I look, she turns and shies,And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes!
I tell Sall's lambs how blest they be,
To stand about and stare at she;
But when I look, she turns and shies,
And won't bear none but their sheep's-eyes!
Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—Beneath her smile the garden grows;Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!
Love goes with Peggy where she goes,—
Beneath her smile the garden grows;
Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts,
'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts!
Where Sally goes it's always Spring,Her presence brightens everything;The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,It makes brass farthings look like guineas.
Where Sally goes it's always Spring,
Her presence brightens everything;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.
For Peggy I can have no joy,She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,As comfortless as sheep with ticks.
For Peggy I can have no joy,
She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy,
And keeps me, by her wayward tricks,
As comfortless as sheep with ticks.
Sally is ripe as June or May,And yet as cold as Christmas day;For when she's asked to change her lot,Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.
Sally is ripe as June or May,
And yet as cold as Christmas day;
For when she's asked to change her lot,
Lamb's wool,—but Sally, she wool not.
Only with Peggy and with health,I'd never wish for state or wealth;Talking of having health and more pence,I'd drink her health if I had four pence.
Only with Peggy and with health,
I'd never wish for state or wealth;
Talking of having health and more pence,
I'd drink her health if I had four pence.
Oh, how that day would seem to shine,If Sally's banns were read with mine;She cries, when such a wish I carry,'Marry come up!' but will not marry.
Oh, how that day would seem to shine,
If Sally's banns were read with mine;
She cries, when such a wish I carry,
'Marry come up!' but will not marry.
Pure water it plays a good part inThe swabbing the decks and all that—And it finds its own level for sartin—For it sartinly drinks very flat:—For my part a drop of the creaturI never could think was a fault,For if Tars should swig water by natur,The sea would have never been salt!—Then off with it into a jorumAnd make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat!—One day when I was but half sober,—Half measures I always disdain—I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,And ax'd for some Water Champagne:—Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat.
Pure water it plays a good part inThe swabbing the decks and all that—And it finds its own level for sartin—For it sartinly drinks very flat:—For my part a drop of the creaturI never could think was a fault,For if Tars should swig water by natur,The sea would have never been salt!—Then off with it into a jorumAnd make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat!—One day when I was but half sober,—Half measures I always disdain—I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,And ax'd for some Water Champagne:—Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat.
Pure water it plays a good part inThe swabbing the decks and all that—And it finds its own level for sartin—For it sartinly drinks very flat:—For my part a drop of the creaturI never could think was a fault,For if Tars should swig water by natur,The sea would have never been salt!—Then off with it into a jorumAnd make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat!—
Pure water it plays a good part in
The swabbing the decks and all that—
And it finds its own level for sartin—
For it sartinly drinks very flat:—
For my part a drop of the creatur
I never could think was a fault,
For if Tars should swig water by natur,
The sea would have never been salt!—
Then off with it into a jorum
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat!—
One day when I was but half sober,—Half measures I always disdain—I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,And ax'd for some Water Champagne:—Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!—Then off with it into a jorum,And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,For if I've any sense of decorum,It never was meant to be neat.
One day when I was but half sober,—
Half measures I always disdain—
I walk'd into a shop that sold Soda,
And ax'd for some Water Champagne:—
Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys,
Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more,
And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys,
Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore!—
Then off with it into a jorum,
And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet,
For if I've any sense of decorum,
It never was meant to be neat.
We met—'twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter'd,I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter'd.I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall'd their brightness;They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,He swore, a something low—but 'twas no use to fear him;I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,And stept—as he deserv'd—to cells wretched and lonely:And there he will be tried—but I shall ne'er receive her,The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;The world may think me gay,—heart and feet ache together,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
We met—'twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter'd,I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter'd.I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall'd their brightness;They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,He swore, a something low—but 'twas no use to fear him;I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,And stept—as he deserv'd—to cells wretched and lonely:And there he will be tried—but I shall ne'er receive her,The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;The world may think me gay,—heart and feet ache together,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
We met—'twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter'd,I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter'd.I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall'd their brightness;They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
We met—'twas in a mob—and I thought he had done me—
I felt—I could not feel—for no watch was upon me;
He ran—the night was cold—and his pace was unalter'd,
I too longed much to pelt—but my small-boned legs falter'd.
I wore my bran new boots—and unrivall'd their brightness;
They fit me to a hair—how I hated their tightness!
I call'd, but no one came, and my stride had a tether,
Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,He swore, a something low—but 'twas no use to fear him;I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,And stept—as he deserv'd—to cells wretched and lonely:And there he will be tried—but I shall ne'er receive her,The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;The world may think me gay,—heart and feet ache together,Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
And once again we met—and an old pal was near him,
He swore, a something low—but 'twas no use to fear him;
I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only,
And stept—as he deserv'd—to cells wretched and lonely:
And there he will be tried—but I shall ne'er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver;
The world may think me gay,—heart and feet ache together,
Ohthouhast been the cause of this anguish, my leather!
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,How many a tale their music tells,Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,And letters only just in time!—The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,The Postman gone—and I must pay,For down below Deaf Mary dwells,And does not hear those Evening Bells.And so 'twill be when she is gone,That tuneful peal will still ring on,And other maids with timely yellsForget to stay those Evening Bells.
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,How many a tale their music tells,Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,And letters only just in time!—The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,The Postman gone—and I must pay,For down below Deaf Mary dwells,And does not hear those Evening Bells.And so 'twill be when she is gone,That tuneful peal will still ring on,And other maids with timely yellsForget to stay those Evening Bells.
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,How many a tale their music tells,Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,And letters only just in time!—
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells,
How many a tale their music tells,
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime,
And letters only just in time!—
The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,The Postman gone—and I must pay,For down below Deaf Mary dwells,And does not hear those Evening Bells.
The Muffin-boy has pass'd away,
The Postman gone—and I must pay,
For down below Deaf Mary dwells,
And does not hear those Evening Bells.
And so 'twill be when she is gone,That tuneful peal will still ring on,And other maids with timely yellsForget to stay those Evening Bells.
And so 'twill be when she is gone,
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
And other maids with timely yells
Forget to stay those Evening Bells.
Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter,The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;TheMussul-man coming to fish in this waterAdds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,This greyishbathcloak is her funeral pall;And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hearIs her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter,The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;TheMussul-man coming to fish in this waterAdds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,This greyishbathcloak is her funeral pall;And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hearIs her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter,The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;TheMussul-man coming to fish in this waterAdds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.
Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter,
The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;
TheMussul-man coming to fish in this water
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.
This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,This greyishbathcloak is her funeral pall;And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hearIs her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!
This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,
This greyishbathcloak is her funeral pall;
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!
Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,
My mother's own daughter—the last of her race—
She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,
And sleeps in the water that washes her face.