When I gave to old Dobbin his song and his due, Apollo, I feared, would look scornfully blue; I thought he might spurn the low station and blood, And turn such a Pegasus out of his stud.
But another "four-footed" comes boldly to claim His place beside Dobbin for merit and fame; He shall have it,—for why should I be over nice, Since Homer immortalized Ilion and—mice?
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.
If my own kin or kind had demolish'd my ball, The transgression was mark'd with a scuffle and squall; But with perfect consent he might mouth it about, Till the very last atom of sawdust was out.
When halfpence were doled for the holiday treat, How I long'd for the comfits, so lusciously sweet; But cakes must be purchased, for how could I bear To feast on a luxury Pinch could not share?
I fondled, I fed him, I coax'd or I cuff'd,— I drove or I led him, I sooth'd or I huff'd: He had beatings in anger, and huggings in love, But which were most cruel, 'twere a puzzle to prove.
If he dared to rebel, I might battle and wage The fierce war of a tyrant with petulant rage: I might ply him with kicks, or belabour with blows; But Pincher was never once known to oppose.
Did a mother appear, the loud quarrel to learn; If 'twere only with him, it gave little concern: No ill-usage could rouse him, no insult could chafe; While Pinch was the playmate, her darling was safe.
If the geese on the common gave signal of fear, And screams most unmusical startled the ear, The cause was soon guessed, for my foremost delight Was in seeing Pinch put the old gander to flight.
Had the pantry been rifled of remnant of beef, Shrewd suspicions were form'd of receiver and thief; For I paused not at crime, and I blush'd not at fibs, That assisted to nurture his well-cover'd ribs.
The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared: The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot; But the threat was by both of us always forgot.
The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again; And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain: The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay; And when last we were seen, we were bending that way.
When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done, Some atrocious spoliation I chose to call "fun!" Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try Knew well that the active Sejanus was I.
But we weather'd all gales, and the years sped away, Till his glossy black hide was fast turning to grey; When accents were heard most alarmingly sad, Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.
It was true his fix'd doom was no longer a joke; He that moment must die: my young heart was nigh broke: I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest, And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd.
A shot, a faint howl, and old Pincher was dead: How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed! Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling and clear; Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear.
Our winter-night circle was now incomplete; We miss'd the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet: All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot, We landed his merits, and sigh'd o'er his lot.
Poodle, spaniel, and greyhound, were brought for my care, Of beauty and breed reckon'd preciously rare; But the playmate of infancy, friend of my youth, Was link'd with a lasting affection and truth.
He was never supplanted; nay, mention him now, And a something of shadow will steal from my brow: "Poor fellow!" will burst in such tone of regret, That whispers my heart is his lurking-place yet.
No wonder; for Memory brings back with him The thoughts that will render the lightest eye dim; He is mingled with all that I idolized most; The brightest, the purest, the loved, and the lost.
The smile of a parent, the dearest, the best, The joys of my forest home spring to my breast; And those days reappear with a halo divine, When a mother, old Pincher, and childhood were mine.
