My brindle bull-terrier, loving and wise,
With his little screw-tail and his wonderful eyes,
With his white little breast and his white little paws
Which, alas! he mistakes very often for claws;
With his sad little gait as he comes from the fight
When he feels that he hasn’t done all that he might;
Oh, so fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog,
My near little, queer little, dear little dog!
He shivers and shivers and shakes with the cold;
He huddles and cuddles, though three summers old.
And forsaking the sunshine, endeavors to rove
With his cold little worriments under the stove!
At table, his majesty, dying formeat,—
Yet never despising a lump that is sweet,—
Sits close by my side with his head on my knee
And steals every good resolution from me!
How can I withhold from those worshipping eyes
A small bit of something that stealthily flies
Down under the table and into his mouth
As I tell my dear neighbor of life in the South.
My near little, queer little, dear little dog,
So fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog!
The nearest and queerest and dearest of all
The race that is loving and winning and small;
The sweetest, most faithful, the truest and best
Dispenser of merriment, love and unrest!
