You scrub-haired pup, won't hurry me up; nor yet your shrill mol-rowing,
You wild Welsh cat. What are you at, you lurcher? Think you Labour
Will benefit when you have bit or worried every neighbour?
Bless my old bones! your snarling tones, my angry Irish tarrier,
Between you and the grub you'd grab will only raise a barrier.
Your quarrelsome temper is your cuss, if you could only know it.
You snap all round like some mad 'ound. Bite your own tail—ah! go it!
All cat-and-dog arter the prog, all savage, snappy, yappy,
Upset the lot, and then I 'ope you'll all be bloomin' 'appy!
Yah! bust the pack o' ye, I says. Your shindy gives me dizziness.