The Geographer's Glory,
or, The Globe in 1730
or, The Globe in 1730
When through the windows buzzed the way-lost beeInto a drowsy room that held no honey,Whose solemn clock surveyed the merry swarmOf boys intent on chapbook and fools' tricks,At length the old Geographer resumedHis desk; when several close observers notedSigns that his late reappearance might be dueTo a well-met friend, and the cheerful bottle to give him.Meanwhile the master, laying down his hat,His gold-laced hat, and tossing his wig's three tails,Poising a quill, and letting it fall to the floor,Replacing his hat, caressing a small Globe,Saddling his nose, descanted thus:"Boys, boys,I must desire you'll ever pay respectTo our most ripe, most profitable theme,The Globe, and grammar of Geography.It is a mine, exceeding rich Peru,And, though some owlish critics dub it dry,Exceeds for banquet-like varietyThe City feast. Observe this Globe. My lads,The vast terraqueous ball whereon we dwell,
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