A POEM. 55 



In your esteem, on trial, should he rise, 

 Be sure we sha'n't fall out about the price.' 

 I'd wager ten to one the dog he stole, 

 And as a feint now coins this rigmarole, 

 The simple to deceive ; the season near, 

 His rightful owner would again appear 

 And claim the same ; the loss becomes twofold, 

 His services, by this time known, and gold. 



The ills most frequent to the canine tribe, 

 For each I'll now endeavour to prescribe : 

 The dire Distemper will most loudly call 

 For human aid ; this scourge you'll find will fall 

 Mostly on whelps, and oft with all your care, 

 The common destiny they early share ; 

 And should they have the luck to live this over, 

 Are seldom known entirely to recover, 

 Weakness and cramps ensue we can't suppose 

 They'll ever make such active dogs as those 



