Greedy Grizel, Jarmara the Black, Vinegar Tom and the rest of the pack Ay, now's the nick for her friend Old Harry As a mad Black Bullock would scatter a mob: But no such matter is down in the bond; And now they come to the water's brim A token that makes her shudder and shriek, Moral. There are folks about town to name no names And over their tea, and muffins, and crumpets, And whisper tales they could only have heard No morn- no noon no dusk no proper time of day- No dawn No sky No end to any Row No indications where the Crescents go No top to any steeple No recognitions of familiar people No courtesies for showing 'em No travelling at all-no locomotion, No inkling of the way 66 No go 99 --no notion — by land or ocean No mail no post No news from any foreign coast No park no ring- no afternoon gentility - No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. ALACK! 'tis melancholy theme to think In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied; This college looketh South and West alsoe, Because it hath a cast in windows twain; Crazy and cracked 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, though broke, yet so he mendeth each. 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 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, Six babes he sways, ----- some little and some big, He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig, And raise the wonderment of many a learned man. Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls, While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge No chair he hath, the awful pedagogue, now a birch. Large, as a dome for learning, seems his head, No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize, And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows A mongrel tint, that is ne brow ne blue; For much he loves his native mountain dew; As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap That shows more countries in it than a map, And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, Knowing that infant showers will follow soon, |