Classic Poem

I.

Come, listen ye students of ev'ry degree,
I sing of a wit and a tutor perdie ,
A statesman profound, a critick immense,
In short, a meer jumble of learning and sense;
And yet of his talents, tho' laudably vain,
His own family arts he could never attain.

II.

His father intending his fortune to build,
In his youth would have taught him the trowel to wield,
But the mortar of discipline never would stick,
For his skull was secur'd by a facing of brick,
And with all his endeavours of patience and pain,
The skill of his sire he could never attain.

III.

His mother an housewife neat, artful and wise,
Renown'd for her delicate biscuit and pies,
Soon alter'd his studies, by flatt'ring his taste,
From the raising of walls to the rearing of paste;
But all her instructions were fruitless and vain,
The pye-making myst'ry he ne'er could attain.

IV.

Yet true to his race, in his labours was seen
A jumble of both their professions, I ween;
For, when his own genius he ventur'd to trust,
His pies seem'd of brick, and his houses of crust.
Then, good Mr. Tutor, pray be not so vain,
Since your family arts you could never attain.