For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,
  And some for Doctors of Divinitie,
  Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,
  And soe win academical degree;
  But some are bred for service of the sea,
  Howbeit, their store of learning is but small,
  For mickle waste he counteth it would be
  To stock a head with bookish wares at all,
Only to be knock’d off by ruthless cannon-ball.

V.

  Six babes he sways,—­some little and some big,
  Divided into classes six; alsoe,
  He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig,
  That in the College fareth to and fro,
  And picketh up the urchins’ crumbs below,
  And eke the learned rudiments they scan,
  And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,—­
  Hereafter to be shown in caravan,
And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.

VI.

  Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,
  Whereof, above his head, some two or three
  Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva’s owls,
  But on the branches of no living tree,
  And overlook the learned family;
  While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
  Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,
  Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research
In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—­now a birch.

VII.

  No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,
  Such as would magisterial hams imbed,
  But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,
  Secure in high authority and dread: 
  Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head,
  And, like Apollo’s, all beset with rays,
  Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
  And stand abroad in many several ways:—­
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.

VIII.

  And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
  O’erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,
  That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows
  A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;
  His nose,—­it is a coral to the view;
  Well nourish’d with Pierian Potheen,—­
  For much he loves his native mountain dew;—­
  But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.

IX.

  As for his coat, ’tis such a jerkin short
  As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales;
  But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,
  So that the wind his airy breast assails;
  Below, he wears the nether garb of males,
  Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—­
  Thence further down the native red prevails,
  Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:—­
Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie.

X.