 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
89
Attempted whining several airs,
And practised “Yankee Doodle,” till
The flute knock'd under to his skill.
The dog at last essayed to play,
Or whine out “Hail Columbia.”
He practised long, with patience rare,
And nearly perfect got the air;
Still doggedly resolved to mend it,—
The trouble was he couldn't end it,
But the last strains would keep re-whining,
Till painful 'twas to hear him trying.
And so for days the poor dog tried,
Grew thin upon it, sick and died;
A clear case of a broken heart,
A martyr to the tuneful art.
A great dog, that!—continued he,—
And brought his hand down forcibly,—
Hundreds, with lib'ral offers, sought him,
But, faith! no money could have bought him.
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |