'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man--with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology-- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little poll-hills, The faculties throw up like mole-hills; A science that, in very spite Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light, For though he knew his skull had _grinders_, Still there turned up no _organ_ finders, Still sages wrote, and ages fled, And no man's head came in his head-- Not even the pate of Erra Pater, Knew aught about its pia mater. At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him-- I don't know but it might be Spurzheim-- Tho' native of a dull and slow land, And makes partition of our Poll-land; At our Acquisitiveness guesses, And all those necessary _nesses_ Indicative of human habits, All burrowing in the head like rabbits. Thus Veneration, he made known, Had got a lodging at the Crown; And Music (see Deville's example) A set of chambers in the Temple; That Language taught the tongues close by, And took in pupils thro' the eye, Close by his neighbor Computation, Who taught the eyebrows numeration. The science thus--to speak in fit Terms--having struggled from its nit, Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen Those scientifical hotch-potch men, Who have at least a penny dip, And wallop in all doctorship, Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water: These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science; For of all learned themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver, There's none they love so near the bodles, As analysing their own noddles; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head, And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than poor Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers'. And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls! For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin; Down to the very lowest gullion, And oiliest skull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they _did_ do, They begged his cranium of his widow: No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster; For thereon they could show depending, "The head and front of his offending": How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail! And many a stiff and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion,-- Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils, Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister.