A WAITING GAME.
WARY WILLIAM, loquitur:—
Drat that dog!
Dogs are mixed,—like men.
Few know how to jog;
Hasty tongue and pen,
Many a bungler bog,
Steady! I'll say when!
Lots of dogs I've bred.
Most want whip, a deal.
This one, be it said,
Is more hot than leal;
Wants to go ahead,
Hates to come to heel!
Skies are overcast;
Slowly comes the spring,
Quarry's tracked—at last,
Strong, though, on the wing.
Steady! Not so fast!
Waiting game's the thing.
'Tother WILLIAM'S style
Rather spoiled this pup.
Steady! Wait awhile!
H-RC-RT's like a Krupp.
I can stroll, and smile—
Till the birds get up.
Half-bred dogs—well, well,
Mustn't talk like that!
Else they'll call me "swell."
Down! What are you at?
Scurry and pell-mell
Do not 'bell the cat.'
Sport is not a mere
Game of "Spill and pelt"
Patience! End is near.
Down! Brute wants a welt!
Modern breed runs queer;
That I long have felt.
'Tother WILLIAM snorts,
L-BBY only grins;
But at most all sports
It is judgment wins.
Breed, though, now consorts
With mongrels—for its sins!
Long the sport I've loved,
Mean to try again,
I should be reproved
Did I speak too plain:
But—are dogs improved
By that Irish strain?
Steady, my lad, steady!
Nearly slipped me then!
You're too hot and heady—
(Like no end of men!—)
Near!—but not quite ready.
Steady! I'll say when!
VESTRYMEN CLIMBING DOWN.—Say the unfortunate Nonconformist Vestrymen of St. George's, Southwark,—"We won't pay the Rector's Rate; but we won't go to prison, at any rate."