TO A DACHSHUND.
[About the precise nationality of whose remote progenitor—whether Danish, Flemish, or British through the old English Turnspit—the writer will not stay to argue.]
My faithful Peter, mount upon my knee,
And shame me with the patience of your eyes,
Till I for divers patriots that be
Humbly apologise.
Not for the street-boy—him you had for years
And, knowing, make allowance for his ways,
If hoots of ignorance and stones and jeers
Martyr your latter days;
But for such shoddy patriots as join
The street-boy's manners to a petty mind,
And dealing little in true-minted coin
Tender the baser kind.
For instance, Smith (till lately Gründelhorn),
Who meets you with your mistress all alone,
And growls a "German beast" with senseless scorn
In a (still) guttural tone.
And Jones, who owes his mansion to the War
And loves to drown great luncheons in champagne,
But who, to prove he loves his England more,
Strikes at you with his cane.
The while Miss Podsnap, who in dogs can brook
No name that smacks of Teuton, snatches up,
Lest you contaminate it with a look,
Her Pomeranian pup.
Forgive them, Pete! We are not all well-bred,
Not all so wise, so sensible as you;
Not all our sires, for generations dead,
To British homes were true.
Yet, prizing steadfast love and fealty, some
The gulf of their deficiencies may span,
And learn of you the virtues that become
An English gentleman.
We wish Russia wouldn't wash her dirty LENIN in public.
