Then they went to their homes in the suburbs and town;
To their farms went the Glugs who were bearded and brown.
Portly Glugs with cigars went to dine at their clubs,
While illiterate Glugs had one more at the pubs.
And each household in Gosh sat and talked half the night
Of the wonderful day, and the imminent fight.
Forgetting the rhymer, forgetting his rhymes,
They talked of Sir Stodge and his numerous crimes.
There was hardly a C3lug in the whole land of Gosh
Who’d a lenient word to put in for King Splosh.
One and all, to the mangiest, surliest dog,
Were quite eager to bark for his Worship of Quog.
Forgotten, unnoticed, Sym wended his way
To his lodging in Gosh at the close of the day.
And ’twas there, to his friend and companion of years—
To his little red dog with the funny prick ears—
That he poured out his woe; seeking nothing to hide;
And the little dog listened, his head on one side.
“O you little red dog, you are weary as I.
It is days, it is months since we saw the blue sky.
And it seems weary years since we sniffed at the breeze
As it hms thro’ the hedges and sings in the trees.
These we know and we love. But this city holds fears,
O my friend of the road, with the funny prick ears.
And for what me we hope from his Worship of Quog?”
“Oh, and a bone, and a kick,” said the little red dog.
He was a Glug of simple charm;
He wished no living creature harm.
His kindly smile like sunlight fell
On all about, and wished them well.
Yet, ’spite the cheerful soul of Sym,
The great Sir Stodge detested him.
The stern Sir Stodge and all his Swanks—
Proud Glugs of divers grades and ranks,
With learning and attainments great—
Had never learned to conquer hate.
And, failing in their A. B. C.,
Were whipt by Master Destiny.
’Twas thus that Gosh’s famous schools
Turned out great hordes of learned fools:
Turned out the ship without a sail,
Turned out the kite with leaden tail,
Turned out the mind that could not soar
Because of foolish weights it bore.
Because there’d been no father Joi
To guide the quick mind of a boy
Away from thoughts of hate and blame,
Wisdom in these was but a name.
But ’mid the Glugs they count him wise
Who walks with cunning in his eyes.
His task well done, his three rhymes writ,
Sym rose at morn, and packed his kit.
“At last!” he cried. “Off and away
To meet again the spendthrift Day,
As he comes climbing in the East,
To bless with largesse man and beast.
“Again the fields where wild things run!
And trees, all spreading to the sun,
Run not, because, of all things blest,
Their chosen place contents them best.
0 come, my little prick-eared dog!” . . .
But, “Halt!” exclaimed his Nibs of Quog.