P. or The Magpie

A MAGPIE once was such a dunce, That all the people said, More bricks would lie in a fish’s eye, Than learning in his head.

And though his mother herself did bother And every trouble took, Yet not one word could that dull bird Repeat without his book.

Till once he saw a young jackdaw Who dearly loved his letters; Though not so much his taste was such, As ’twas to ape his betters.

Howe’er this be the jackdaw he Could tell a funny story; And many a bird his prattle heard And envied him his glory.

But when he shew’d the wond’ring crowd How he could spout and swell, The Magpie tried for very pride If he could do as well.

And every night by candlelight He conn’d his lessons o’er, And every morn with the herdsman’s horn He rose and practised more.

Full soon he thought himself well taught, And then began to chatter: And the careful dame, his mother, came To see what was the matter.

Like Miller Peel he smiled a deal, And cull’d the fairest diction; And look’d quite true though well he knew That every word was fiction.

Then to his nose he raised his toes, And gravely look’d askew; And thought himself a clever elf:— And his mother thought so too.

“Caw, caw!” quoth she; “he sure must be An orator or poet: I’ll have him sent to Parliament, That all the world may know it.”

But though he shone so much alone, And made his mother stare, “The Members” swore he was a bore, And had no business there.

Yet there he is, and there I wis, He’s likely still to be; As, should you call at Stephen’s hall, Yourself may chance to see.