FINISHING TOUCHES 
139 
A setter of a famous race, 
Of dogs that well could show the pace, 
That won in many a hard-fought race, 
Is my young Ben. 
Your sire knew too much to stay 
And throw his precious time away 
Where wily quail would never stray. 
Just to please men. 
But scorning all the bare green field 
He knew no crafty bird concealed, 
He sought the cover that would yield 
The hidden game. 
And from your dam, my gallant boy, 
Comes rich blue blood without alloy, 
The blood that’s been the sportsman’s joy 
Since Gladstone came. 
Your grandsire, gallant Eugene M, 
Has handed down a worthy name, 
’Though some would be inclined to blame 
His urge alone. 
But when you flit among the trees, 
Or speeding up against the breeze, 
You catch the scent and sudden freeze 
As stiff as stone, 
I know that of a noble race, 
A scion, you will fill your place 
And many a happy day you’ll grace, 
My bonnie Ben. 
