Poems.
85
The scholars flocked in cellar, and in ball, By hundreds filled the benches; on the table,Even, they perched; no places for them allFound he: the wise Doctor's knowledgePleased them so well, they sought no other college.
And he taught so well, and pleased them so, They all did mourn when school was ended;Felt very sad that they had to go! To pay their bills; to the desk they wended."Perhaps you may find my charges dear, Still, you know, my system is very rare;I ask for one soul from all that's here; You can cast for lots, I'm sure that's fair," Said their classical Professor.
They murmured, but murmuring wouldn't do; They were forced to draw for the dreaded fate;They felt it then, how the words were true— His charges were at a heavy rate! The lot of the lowest number fellOn a young count, cunning and witty,Who shrugged his shoulders, and thought—"A pity My splendid talents be cast in ———!
Still his Honor's claws have not me yet,And I'll not my human craft forget,I'll not bid farewell to my mother earth,Or yield my soul and my right of birth To this wicked old transgressor!"
