Fitte the First
The pup was of as noble mien As e'er you gazed upon; They called his mother Lady And his father was a Don. And both his mother and his sire Were of the race Bernard— The family famed in histories And hymned of every bard. His form was of exuberant mold, Long, slim, and loose of joints; There never yet was pointer-dog So full as he of points. His hair was like to yellow fleece, His eyes were black and kind, And like a nodding, gilded plume His tail stuck up behind. His bark was very, very fierce, And fierce his appetite, Yet was it only things to eat That he was prone to bite. But in that one particular He was so passing true That never did he quit a meal Until he had got through. Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash, Joint, chop, or chicken limb— So long as it was edible, 'T was all the same to him! And frequently when Hunger's pangs Assailed that callow pup, He masticated boots and gloves Or chewed a door-mat up. So was he much beholden of The folk that him did keep; They loved him when he was awake And better still asleep.
Eugene Field’s other poems:
Poems of other poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):
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