 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
THE VILLAGE PHILOSOPHER
He kept the village school—some score
Of boys and girls, with little primers;
Their fathers he had taught before,
Had called their mothers “idle limmers”:
For well he liked to give hard names,
But still in blandest accent spoken;
They never spoilt the children's games,
Nor yet by them their heads were broken.
Of boys and girls, with little primers;
Their fathers he had taught before,
Had called their mothers “idle limmers”:
For well he liked to give hard names,
But still in blandest accent spoken;
They never spoilt the children's games,
Nor yet by them their heads were broken.
He had been village “merchant” once,
But had not prospered in that calling;
A trade, he said, for any dunce,
To be a ledger overhauling:
A silly, mindless business, he
Was heard in very scorn to mutter,
To barter cloth and combs and tea
And spades and rakes for eggs and butter!
But had not prospered in that calling;
A trade, he said, for any dunce,
To be a ledger overhauling:
A silly, mindless business, he
Was heard in very scorn to mutter,
To barter cloth and combs and tea
And spades and rakes for eggs and butter!
For he was a philosopher,
And such with trade make no alliance;
They said that even the minister
Was puzzled with his views of science:
He knew the hour of the Eclipse,
He made the Kirk a ventilator,
And could have sailed the biggest ships
Across the line of the Equator.
And such with trade make no alliance;
They said that even the minister
Was puzzled with his views of science:
He knew the hour of the Eclipse,
He made the Kirk a ventilator,
And could have sailed the biggest ships
Across the line of the Equator.
Before the school door he had reared
A pillar-stone and true sun-dial;
And in the window there appeared,
For weather-glass, a wondrous phial,
Its neck was partly ground, and then
'Twas hung, mouth-downward, filled with water;
And if it dropped, there would be rain,
But if it shrank, the clouds would scatter.
A pillar-stone and true sun-dial;
And in the window there appeared,
For weather-glass, a wondrous phial,
Its neck was partly ground, and then
'Twas hung, mouth-downward, filled with water;
And if it dropped, there would be rain,
But if it shrank, the clouds would scatter.
He had a glass that showed the moon
Whose mountains looked like inky blotches,
He had a box that played a tune,
When rightly touched at certain notches;
He had a round electric wheel
Could give a shock to all the village,
That made their elbows ache, and feel
As tired as with a hard day's tillage.
Whose mountains looked like inky blotches,
He had a box that played a tune,
When rightly touched at certain notches;
He had a round electric wheel
Could give a shock to all the village,
That made their elbows ache, and feel
As tired as with a hard day's tillage.
He beat the smith—until he drank—
At working cures on sickly cattle;
For when he came to byre or fank,
The sight of him was half the battle:
In very fear the ewes grew well
The moment that they smelt his potions,
And cows to healthy sweating fell
To see his poultices and lotions.
At working cures on sickly cattle;
For when he came to byre or fank,
The sight of him was half the battle:
In very fear the ewes grew well
The moment that they smelt his potions,
And cows to healthy sweating fell
To see his poultices and lotions.
So blandly as he pinched his snuff
When he did horse or bullock handle!
So careful as he mixed the stuff
By light of flaring lamp or candle!
So wisely as he would discourse
Of Pleuro, Foot-and-Mouth, or Staggers!
And if the stubborn brutes grew worse,
He glared at them with looks like daggers.
When he did horse or bullock handle!
So careful as he mixed the stuff
By light of flaring lamp or candle!
So wisely as he would discourse
Of Pleuro, Foot-and-Mouth, or Staggers!
And if the stubborn brutes grew worse,
He glared at them with looks like daggers.
Oh little village-world, that hast
Thy prophets, watched with faith and wonder,
Stoutly believed it to the last
In spite of failure, loss and blunder,
What art thou but the world in small?
And what its prophets more than thine are?
Perhaps an inch or two more tall,
But hardly even a shade diviner.
Thy prophets, watched with faith and wonder,
Stoutly believed it to the last
In spite of failure, loss and blunder,
360
And what its prophets more than thine are?
Perhaps an inch or two more tall,
But hardly even a shade diviner.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |