Classic Poem

Aye, we'll block that game—or try to!
There's more of 'em down this way—
Uncle, are yonder the kennels?
Yes, mas'r—sorry to say.

Sure enough—hark, what a baying!
A heap of 'em, I'll be bound.
Here's one coming to meet us—
Boys, what a handsome hound!

My eyes—such wagging and leaping!
So jolly, you'd never think
He could tree and watch a white human,
Or tear his throat, at a wink!

Poor fellow—so pleased to be petted!
Little knowing where it ends—
Seeing us with the old darkey,
He fancies we are his friends.

No fault of thine, my doggie,
(Poor honest beast of God!)
That devils taught thee to snuff the trail
Where bleeding feet have trod.

But creatures, dumb or human,
Good, it may be, at their birth,
Once trained in the school of Satan,
Can be trusted no more on earth.

We know that 'tis no use trying
To teach an old dog new tricks—
By Jove, I'd be glad to save him!
But can't, anyway you can fix.

Here's for it, then! though it goes,
I tell you, against the grain—
But it's right, and it must be done—
He shan't feel a minute's pain.

'Tis but a click and a bound!
And there he lies—poor old pup!
Boys! I'd rather be that dead hound
Than the devil that brought him up.