While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessed
It’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.
He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,
With the eyes on him standing agog,
And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright;
Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight,
But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.
His rotundity now to absurdity runs,
Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;
For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shuns