Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the wayWith blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,The village master taught his little school;A man severe he was, and stern to view,I knew him well, and every truant knew;Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to traceThe days disasters in his morning face;Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee,At all his jokes, for many a joke had he:Full well the busy whisper, circling round,Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd:Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,The love he bore to learning was in fault.The village all declar'd how much he knew;'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too:Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill,For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still;While words of learned length and thund'ring soundAmazed the gazing rustics rang'd around;And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew,That one small head could carry all he knew.But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumph'd is forgot.
