Page:Poems Cook.djvu/242

There was bustling old Pincher, all fierceness and bark;
And even fat Dido, as gay as a lark;
Snap, Vixen, and Bob, and another full score,
For though rats might be many—the dogs were oft more.

It was sport, I dare say, but such works were torn down,
That the sapient "master" look'd on with a frown;
And saw without aid of astrologer's star,
That the hunters were worse than the hunted, by far.

Full well I remember our taking the ale
To the good-natured fellow who toil'd at the flail;
When the boy—who now sleeps with a stone at his feet—
Would fain try his hand as a thrasher of wheat.

'Twas agreed to—and boldly he swung the bright staff,
With an awkwardness raising a tittering laugh,
Which strengthen'd to bursting Vulgarity's tone,
When, instead of on wheat-ears it fell on his own.

Ever luckless in daring, 'twas he who slipp'd down,
With a broken-out tooth and a broken-in crown—
When he clamber'd up high on the crossbeams, to feed
The unhappy stray cat and her tortoiseshell breed.

'Twas he who, in petulance, sulk'd with his home,
And pack'd up his bundle the wide world to roam;
But, with penitent heart, and a shelterless head,
He came back to the sheaves in the barn for a bed.

'Twas a bitter, cold night when I heard with a pout,
That the stables were full, and old Dobbin turn'd out;
Old Dob who had seen a score miles since the morn;
'Twas a shame and a cruelty not to be borne.

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