Unless it be a friendly call
From soldiers walking in the Mall,
Or the impertinence of pugs
Stretched at their ease on carriage rugs.
For thou art sturdy and thy fur
Is rougher than the prickly burr,
Thy manners brusque, thy deep "bow wow"
(Inherited, but Lord knows how!)
Far other than the frenzied yaps
That emanate from ladies' laps,
Thou art, in fact, of doggy size
And hast the brown and faithful eyes,
So full of love, so void of blame,
That fill a master's heart with shame
Because he knows he never can
Be more a dog and less a man.
No champion of a hundred shows,
The prey of every draught that blows,
Art thou; in fact thy charms present
The earmarks of a mixed descent.
And, though too proud to start a fight
With every cur that looms in sight,
None ever saw thee quail beneath
A foeman worthy of thy teeth.
Thou art, in brief, a model hound,
Not so much beautiful as sound
In heart and limb; not always strong
When nose and eyes impel to wrong,
Nor always doing just as bid,
But sterling as the minted quid.