Gregory Parable, Ll.d
A LEAFY cot, where no dry rotHad ever been by tenant seen,Where ivy clung and wopses stung,Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,Where treeses grew and breezes blew—A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,Where countless herds of dicky-birdsBuilt twiggy beds to lay their heads(My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,”But though it’s true that dickies doConstruct a nest with chirpy noise,With view to rest their eggy joys,’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,As I explain to her in vainFive hundred times, are faulty rhymes).’Neath such a cot, built on a plotOf freehold land, dwelt MARY andHer worthy father, named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.
He knew no guile, this simple man,No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,Except that plot of freehold landThat held the cot, and MARY, andHer worthy father, named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.
A grave and learned scholar he,Yet simple as a child could be.He’d shirk his meal to sit and cramA goodish deal of Eton Gram.No man alive could him nonplusWith vocative of filius;No man alive more fully knewThe passive of a verb or two;None better knew the worth than heOf words that end in b, d, t.Upon his green in early springHe might be seen endeavouringTo understand the hooks and crooksOf HENRY and his Latin books;Or calling for his “Cæsar onThe Gallic War,” like any don;Or, p’raps, expounding unto allHow mythic BALBUS built a wall.So lived the sage who’s named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.
To him one autumn day there cameA lovely youth of mystic name:He took a lodging in the house,And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,For, oh! that mild scholastic oneLet shooting for a single gun.
By three or four, when sport was o’er,The Mystic One laid by his gun,And made sheep’s eyes of giant size,Till after tea, at MARY P.And MARY P. (so kind was she),She, too, made eyes of giant size,Whose every dart right through the heartAppeared to run that Mystic One.The Doctor’s whim engrossing him,He did not know they flirted so.For, save at tea, “musa musæ,”As I’m advised, monopolisedAnd rendered blind his giant mind.But looking up above his cupOne afternoon, he saw them spoon.“Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass!As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!’”
The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,And, claiming ruth, he said, “In soothI love your daughter, aged man:Refuse to join us if you can.Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.”“Young sir,” the aged scholar said,“I never thought you meant to wed:Engrossed completely with my books,I little noticed lovers’ looks.I’ve lived so long away from man,I do not know of any planBy which to test a lover’s worth,Except, perhaps, the test of birth.I’ve half forgotten in this wildA father’s duty to his child.It is his place, I think it’s said,To see his daughters richly wedTo dignitaries of the earth—If possible, of noble birth.If noble birth is not at hand,A father may, I understand(And this affords a chance for you),Be satisfied to wed her toA BOUCICAULT or BARING—whichMeans any one who’s very rich.Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,—My child and I will go and tryIf he will make the maid his bride—If not, to you she shall be tied.”
They sought the Earl that very day;The Sage began to say his say.The Earl (a very wicked man,Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban)Cut short the scholar’s simple tale,And said in voice to make them quail,“Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt—Here, PETERS, turn these people out!”
The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,Returning, met the Mystic Youth.“My darling boy,” the Scholar said,“Take MARY—blessings on your head!”
The Mystic Boy undid his vest,And took a parchment from his breast,And said, “Now, by that noble brow,I ne’er knew father such as thou!The sterling rule of common senseNow reaps its proper recompense.Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen,For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!”