VII
His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade
Is dirt:—he’s quite contemptible; and yet
The fellow’s all as anxious as a maid
To show a decent dress, and dry the wet.
Now it’s his whisker,
And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get
Each moment at the motion brisker!
VIII
To see him squat like little chaps at school,
I could let fly a laugh with all my might.
He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:—bless that fool,
He’s bobbing at his frill now!—what a sight!
Licking the dish up,
As if he thought to pass from black to white,
Like parson into lawny bishop.