Classic Poem

'Tis said that once, ere manhood's prime began,
My Peter, journeying thro' some mountain pass,
'Gan meditate upon Life's mazy plan:
He had leisure for't, being mounted on an Ass.

'Twas summer sabbath-day, the Ass went slow:
Rose wondrous, silent hills, beneath blue sky;
From time to time in valley far below
The little Kirk, on verdant knoll, attracts his eye.

Dark lay the world in Peter's labouring breast:
Here was he (words of import strange); He here!
Mysterious Peter, on mysterious hest:
But Whence? How? Whither? nowise will appear

What was this marv'lous Universe at all?
Some painted diving-bell in Chaos-Ocean?
Poor oysters we in dredge of Starry Ball?
And cries the Belly: Peter, my Promotion?

Musing these mighty topics, Peter's mind
In vortex dark from side to side did tumble;
Like drifting tub, " fix'd point " nowhere could find
But, sport of waves, amid the sea-wreck, jumble.

Seem'd nothing clear on Earth save trot of Cuddy;
That steadiest trot yclept of " butter-and-eggs " ,
Which patters on, in roadway dry or muddy,
Nought heeding halter, heel, or dangling legs.

As thus the Ass and Peter on did work,
The Ass jogtrotting, Peter in brown-study,
His eye (Peter's) glanced on the little Kirk;
The doors flew open: Peter stopt his Cuddy.

Forth rush'd a tide of shepherd-dogs, and then
Of shepherd-people, simple hearers there;
With hum of greetings scatter o'er the glen,
Each on his path, or climb the mountains bare.

Soon stands the Kirk alone among its tombs,
But Peter gazes on it for a space;
The scene had struck like " blue-bore " thro' his glooms,
And sunlit now, he sees both goal and race.

Warm love in floods thro' Peter's bowels flows,
With hand and un arm'd heel he wakes his beast,
And (tears in eyes, and one on point of nose)
Forth-jogging says: God bids me be a Priest!

O Peter, what an hour of heavenly knowledge,
Birth-hour of thy whole wondrous destiny!
Thou trottedst on, to grammar school, to College,
Where still thou trottest — with what speed we see.