A grave and learned scholar he, Yet simple as a child could be. He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram A goodish deal of Eton Gram. No man alive could him nonplus With vocative of _filius_; No man alive more fully knew The passive of a verb or two; None better knew the worth than he Of words that end in _b_, _d_, _t_. Upon his green in early spring He might be seen endeavouring To understand the hooks and crooks Of HENRY and his Latin books; Or calling for his “Cæsar on The Gallic War,” like any don; Or, p’raps, expounding unto all How mythic BALBUS built a wall. So lived the sage who’s named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. To him one autumn day there came A lovely youth of mystic name: He took a lodging in the house, And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, For, oh! that mild scholastic one Let 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 heart Appeared 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, monopolised And rendered blind his giant mind. But looking up above his cup One 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 sooth I 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 plan By which to test a lover’s worth, Except, perhaps, the test of birth. I’ve half forgotten in this wild A father’s duty to his child. It is his place, I think it’s said, To see his daughters richly wed To 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 to A BOUCICAULT or BARING—which Means any one who’s very rich. Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,— My child and I will go and try If 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!”