Upon a Dog called Fuddle, Turnspit at the 

 Popinjay, in Norwich *o -=o ^> 



(From Norfolk Drollery) 



T^UDDLE, why so? Some fuddle - cap sure 

 -*- came 



Into the room, and gave him his own name ; 

 How should he catch a fox ? He'll turn his back 

 Upon tobacco, beer, French wine, or sack. 

 A bone his jewel is ; and he does scorn, 

 With /Esop's cock, to wish a barley-corn. 

 There's not a soberer dog, I know, in Norwich, 

 What . . . would ye have him drunk with porridge ? 

 This I confess, he goes around, around, 

 A hundred times, and never touches ground ; 

 And in the middle circle of the air 

 He draws a circle like a conjuror. 

 With eagerness he still does forward tend, 

 Like Sisyphus, whose journey has no end. 

 He is the soul (if wood has such a thing) 

 And living posy of a wooden ring. 

 He is advanced above his fellows, yet 

 He does not for it the least envy get. 

 He does above the Isle of Dogs commence, 

 And wheels the inferior spit by influence. 

 This, though, befalls his more laborious lot, 

 I!c is the Dog-star, and his days are hot. 

 Yet with this comfort there's no fear of burning, 



57 



