Byron. What mean you, sir, by basely changing my lines?
Han. Pring an almanac und find oud. There vos a nice dog outside, Mr. Fresh.
Byron. A dog—a dog—a little dog,
A puppy small, but sharp,
Watching in all of puppyish glee,
His master’s Hebrew harp.
Han. No, sir; he vosn’t vatching any harp. Just yer go oud und feel of his teeth to see how oldt he vos.
Byron. I am happy here.
Han. I vosn’t. Say, Mr. Poet, von day there vas a feller coom to see his gal.
Byron. Come to ask her would she marry,