A DOG ON HIS DAY.
(A Pitiful Epistle from Pongo to Mr. Punch at Christmastide.)
Every dog has his day—so they say,—
And mine it seems comes round once a year.
When all the painter fellows mix their blacks and browns and yellows,
And paint me, in some attitude that's queer,
And unnatural, and silly; spilling milk or supping skilly;
With a bonnet or a bib on, or tied up in bows of ribbon!
Oh, the Dogs' "Decline and Fall" might inspire a doggish Gibbon!
And they make me most unhappy, and my temper sharp and snappy,
Do these pictures poor and pappy. I'm a decent doggish chappie,
But in gaudy Christmas Numbers, watching o'er the sloppy slumbers
Of a baby pink and podgy; or squatting scared and stodgy,
Like a noodle of a poodle—oh! its really wretched foodle!—
At a beetle or a frog staring wildly, in a fog,
Or lapping baby's custard, or refusing baby's mustard,
Or dress'd up like a guy, or winking t'other eye,
In a gown, trimmed with down, like a clown,
Or coquetting with a cat,
Or chasing that old rat
Down that everlasting hole in the stable! On my soul,
A dog as is a dog, and not a duffer,
When the Yuletide pictures come is bound to suffer
Endless agonies of shame at the loss of his good name
As the sonsie friend of man, and a watchful guar-di-an,
Not an adjunct of the nursery!
At this happy anniversary
(Mr. Punch)
I could cr-r-r-runch!
The daubers who malign me, and such stupid rôles assign me.
Why, it's worse than hydrophoby!!!
Mr. Punch, do turn on Toby,
As our champion canine to request each painter chap
To turn off the old stale tap of the porridge and the pap, and the
baby in the cap, or the kid (who needs a slap) and the pug (not
worth a rap) in an apoplectic nap, the toy-terrier on the snap, or
a-sniffing at a trap, or essaying milk to lap, like a small pot-bellied
Jap; and all the old clap-trap
Which makes a decent doggy in sheer desperation say
That he'd rather be a kitten with a ball and string to play,
Or live on clockwork rats, or make breakfast on chopped hay,
Or be smeared all o'er with mustard like a cold beef sandwich,—Aye!
Or—whisper!—Bite a Baby!!—on the nose!! in nursery play!!!
Better dare renewed distemper than another Christmas Day!!
For unless I have your promise—and dear Toby's—I much fear
I must spend a pappy Christmas and a yappy New Year!