Page:Poems Cook.djvu/154

I frolick'd, a youngling, wild, rosy, and fat;
When Pincher was brought in the butcher-boy's hat;
And the long-promised puppy was hail'd with a joy
That ne'er was inspired by a gold-purchased toy.

"What a darling!" cried I; while my sire, with a frown,
Exclaim'd, "Hang the brute! though 'tis easy to drown!"
But I wept at the word, till my sorrowful wail
Won his total reprieve from the rope or the pail.

Regarding his beauty, I'm silent: forsooth,
I've a little old-fashion'd respect for the truth;
And the praise of his colour or shape to advance
Would he that part of History known as Romance.

There were some who most rudely denounced him "a cur!"—
How I hated that name, though I dared not demur!
I thought him all fair; yet I'll answer for this,
That the fate of Narcissus could ne'er have been his.

Now, Dobbin, the pony, belong'd to us all,
Was at every one's service and every one's call:
But Pincher, rare treasure, possession divine,
Was held, undisputed, as whole and sole, mine.

Together we rambled, together we grew:
Many plagues had the household, but we were the two
Who were branded the deepest; all doings reviled,
Were sure to be wrought by "that dog and that child."

Unkennel'd and chainless, yet truly he served;
No serfdom was known, yet his faith never swerved:
A dog has a heart,—secure that, and you'll find
That lore, even in brutes, is the safest to bind.

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