had gone to sleep,
Called attention to the cognac which they wore in little kegs
And remobilised the stagnant circulation in his legs.

How they lifted up their voices, baying like an iron bell,
Till the monks of good St. Bernard heard the same and ran like hell--
Ran and bore him to their hospice, where they put him into bed
And applied a holy posset stiff enough to wake the dead.

Heir to this superb tradition, born to such a pride of race,
From the doggy _flair_ that tells you what a lineage you can trace
You will draw, I trust, a solace for the strange and alien scene
Where you undergo purgation in a stuffy quarantine.

Further, if a homesick feeling sets you itching in the scalp
With a wave of poignant longing for the odour of an Alp,
Let this thought (a thing of splendour) help to keep your pecker up--
You have had a high promotion; you are now a Premier's pup!

You shall guard his sacred portals, you shall eat from off his plate,
Mix with private secretaries, move behind the veil of State,
And at Ministerial councils, as a special form of treat,
You shall sniff at WINSTON'S trousers, you shall fondle CURZON'S feet.

You may even serve your master as an expert, one who knows
All the rules regarding salvage in the Great St. Bernard snows,
Do him good by utilising your hereditary gift
To retrieve his Coalition from a constant state of drift.

O.S.