Our younger dogs cut off from hence
At sight of lash uplifted;
But Rove, with grand indifference,
Remains, and can't be shifted.
And, ah! the set upon his phiz
At meals defies expression;
For I confess that Rover is
A cadger by profession.
The lesser favourites of the place
At dinner keep their distance;
But by my chair one grizzled face
Begs on with brave persistence.
His jaws present a toothless sight,
But still my hearty hero
Can satisfy an appetite
Which brings a bone to zero.
And while Spot barks and pussy mews,
To move the cook's compassion,
He takes his after-dinner snooze
In genuine biped fashion.
In fact, in this, our ancient pet
So hits off human nature,
That I at times almost forget
He's but a dog in feature.
Between his tail and bright old eye
The swift communications
Outstrip the messages which fly
From telegraphic stations.
And, ah! that tail's rich eloquence
Conveys too clear a moral,
For men who have a grain of sense
About its drift to quarrel.
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