Few know how to _jog_;
Hasty tongue and pen,
Many a bungler bog,
Steady! _I_'ll say when!
Lots of dogs I've bred.
Most want whip, a deal.
This one, be it said,
Is more hot than leal;
Wants to go ahead,
Hates to come to heel!
Skies are overcast;
Slowly comes the spring,
Quarry's tracked--at last,
Strong, though, on the wing.
Steady! Not so fast!
Waiting game's the thing.
'Tother WILLIAM'S style
Rather spoiled this pup.
_Steady_! Wait awhile!
H-RC-RT's like a Krupp.
I can stroll, and smile--
Till the birds get up.
Half-bred dogs--well, well,
Mustn't talk like that!
Else they'll call _me_ "swell."
_Down! What are you at_?
Scurry and pell-mell
Do not 'bell the cat.'
Sport is not a mere
Game of "Spill and pelt"
Patience! End is near.
_Down_! Brute wants a welt!
Modern breed runs queer;
That I long have felt.
'Tother WILLIAM snorts,
L-BBY only grins;
But at most all sports
It is _judgment_ wins.
Breed, though, now consorts
With mongrels--for its sins!
Long the sport I've loved,
Mean to try again,
I should be reproved
Did I speak too plain:
But--are dogs improved
By that Irish strain?
Steady, my lad, steady!
Nearly slipped me then!
You're too hot and heady--
(Like no end of men!--)
_Near_!--but not _quite_ ready.
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