Our own discoveries he may steal, Or put night's candles out, to deal At junkshops with the sockets: _Savants_, in other lands or this, If any theory you miss Whereon your cipher graven is, Don't fail to search his pockets! Lock up your comets: if that fails, Then notch their ears and clip their tails, That you at need may swear to 'em; And watch your nebulous flocks at night, For, if your palings are not tight, He may, to gratify his spite, Let in the Little Bear to 'em. Then he's so quarrelsome, we've fears He'll set the very Twins by the ears,-- So mad, if you resist him, He'd get Aquarius to play A milkman's trick, some cloudy day, And water all the Milky Way To starve some sucking system. But plaints are vain! through wrath or pride, The Council all espouse his side And will our missives con no more; And who that knows what _savants_ are, Each snappish as a Leyden jar, Will hope to soothe the wordy war 'Twixt Ologist and Onomer? Search a Reform Convention, where He- and she-resiarehs prepare To get the world in _their_ power, You will not, when 'tis loudest, find Such gifts to hug and snarl combined As drive each astronomic mind With fifty-score Great-Bear-power! No! put the Bootees on your foot, Elope with Virgo, strive to shoot That arrow of O'Ryan's, Drain Georgian Ciders to the lees, Attempt what crackbrained thing you please, But dream not you can e'er appease An angry man of science! Ah, would I were, as I was once, To fair Astronomy a dunce, Or launching _jeux d'esprit_ at her, Of light zodiacal making light, Deaf to all tales of comets bright, And knowing but such stars as might Roll r-rs at our theatre! Then calm I drew my night-cap on, Nor bondsman was for what went on Ere morning in the heavens; Twas no concern of mine to fix The Pleiades at seven or six,-- But now the _omnium genitrix_ Seems all at sixes and sevens. Alas, 'twas in an evil hour We signed the paper for the tower, With Mrs. D. to head it! For, if the Council have their way, We've merely had, as Frenchmen say, The painful _maladie du_ pay, While they get all the credit! Boys, henceforth doomed to spell Trustees, Think not it ends in double ease To those who hold the office; Shun Science as you would Despair, Sit not in Cassiopeia's chair, Nor hope from Berenice's hair To bring away your trophies! THE POCKET-CELEBRATION OF THE FOURTH.