No house! 
            The change was quite amazing;
It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle’s explication seemed to harden;
But soon her superannuated nous
Explain’d the horrid mystery;—­and raising
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,
  On which she meant to sup,—­
“Well! this is Fairy work!  I’ll bet a farden,
Little Prince Silverwings has ketch’d me up,
And set me down in some one else’s garden!”

CRANIOLOGY.

’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,