He’s dodging hot water and sticks;
I’m shamed to confess it, but truth I must write,
He’s a foot-ball that every one kicks.
I hear his thin cry, and his frightened “ki-yi,”
Almost any hour of the day;
And Bridget’s “Bad ’cess to the likes of your Skye,
Sure he’s here, and he’s there like a flay.”
Upon his poor body the hair has all died,
’Tis smooth and as bare as your hand;