ON MY LADY'S POODLE.
I wonder what on earth it is
That makes me think my lady's poodle
(Her minion smug of solemn phiz,)
The pink and pattern of a noodle:
Its eyes are deep; their look, serene;
Its lips are sensitive and smiling;
But oh! the gross effect, I ween,
Is, passing measure, dull and riling.
It is not that its locks are crisp;
Your humble servant's hair is crisper,
It is not that its accents lisp;
I, too, affect a stammered whisper:
Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears
And struts with particoloured bib on;
I like these macaronic airs;
I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon.
Nor can it be—of this I'm sure—
Because she pampers all its wishes
And tempts her peevish epicure
With dainty meats in dainty dishes.
To tell the truth, while I'm her guest,
My little wants and whims she studies;
If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest
No jealous tincture in my blood is.
I wonder, wonder, at a loss
To justify such wayward snarling—
It makes her very, very cross
My poor opinion of her darling;
The cause (should pride the cause withhold,
She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)
The cause is this—she calls, I'm told,
The little brute my "Living image!"