 | Idle Moments : |  |
53
That Canine.
[To my friend G. S. on being chased dy a dog while on a social visit.]
A Parody on the Burial of Sir Jno. Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As quick from that bull-dog he hurried;
Not a policeman was there to fire a shot,
As his teeth near his right leg were buried.
As quick from that bull-dog he hurried;
Not a policeman was there to fire a shot,
As his teeth near his right leg were buried.
Quickly and lively he hurried away,
From that field—not of fame fresh and glory:
Not a “cuss word” escaped his closely pressed lips,
That dog was alone in his glory.
From that field—not of fame fresh and glory:
Not a “cuss word” escaped his closely pressed lips,
That dog was alone in his glory.
And slily he winked, as the seat of his pants,
That bull-dog sat quietly eating;
He remembers, no doubt, that storm-cloudy night,
And sighs with regret at that meeting.
That bull-dog sat quietly eating;
He remembers, no doubt, that storm-cloudy night,
And sighs with regret at that meeting.
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