“Yes, you may well look--you have overslept yourself with a vengeance. The coach must have passed an hour ago--and they have all gone to bed again!” “No, there be no coach, sure enough,” soliloquised Boots, slowly raising his eyes from the road, where he had been searching for the track of recent wheels, and fixing them with a deprecating expression on my face. “No, there’s no coach--I ax a thousand pardons, your honour--but you see, Sir, what with waiting on her, and talking on her, and expecting on her, and giving notice on her, every night of my life, your honour--why I sometimes dreams on her--and that’s the case as is now!” [Illustration: “YOU’VE WAKED ME TOO SOON, I MUST SLUMBER AGAIN.”] [Illustration: A STUFFED BIRD.] THE LAMENT OF TOBY, THE LEARNED PIG. “A little learning is a dangerous thing.”--POPE. O HEAVY day! oh day of woe! To misery a poster, Why was I ever farrow’d--why Not spitted for a roaster? In this world, pigs, as well as men, Must dance to fortune’s fiddlings, But must I give the classics up, For barley-meal and middlings? Of what avail that I could spell And read, just like my betters, If I must come to this at last, To litters, not to letters? O, why are pigs made scholars of? It baffles my discerning, What griskins, fry, and chitterlings Can have to do with learning. Alas! my learning once drew cash, But public fame’s unstable, So I must turn a pig again, And fatten for the table. To leave my literary line My eyes get red and leaky; But Giblett doesn’t want me _blue_, But red and white, and streaky Old Mullins used to cultivate My learning like a gard’ner; But Giblett only thinks of lard, And not of Doctor Lardner! He does not care about my brain The value of two coppers, All that he thinks about my head Is, how I’m off for choppers. Of all my literary kin A farewell must be taken, Goodbye to the poetic Hogg! The philosophic Bacon! Day after day my lessons fade, My intellect gets muddy; A trough I have, and not a desk, A sty--and not a study! Another little month, and then My progress ends like Bunyan’s; The seven sages that I loved Will be chopp’d up with onions! Then over head and ears in brine They’ll souse me, like a salmon, My mathematics turned to brawn, My logic into gammon. My Hebrew will all retrograde, Now I’m put up to fatten; My Greek, it will all go to grease; The Dogs will have my Latin! Farewell to Oxford!--and to Bliss! To Milman, Crowe, and Glossop,-- I now must be content with chats, Instead of learned gossip! Farewell to “Town!” farewell to “Gown!” I’ve quite outgrown the latter,-- Instead of Trencher-cap my head Will soon be in a platter!