His hair was like a yellow fleece,
    His eyes were black and kind,
  And like a nodding, gilded plume
    His tail stuck up behind.

  His bark was very, very fierce
    And fierce his appetite,
  Yet was it only things to eat
    That he was prone to bite.

  But in that one particular
    He was so passing true
  That never did he quit a meal
    Until he had got through.

  Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,
    Joint, chop, or chicken limb—­
  So long as it was edible,
    ’Twas all the same to him!

  And frequently when Hunger’s pangs
    Assailed that callow pup,
  He masticated boots and gloves
    Or chewed a door-mat up.

  So was he much beholden of
    The folk that him did keep;
  They loved him when he was awake
    And better still asleep.

  FITTE THE SECOND.

  Now once his master lingering o’er
    His breakfast coffee-cup,
  Observed unto his doting spouse: 
    “You ought to wash the pup!”

  “That shall I do this very day,”
    His doting spouse replied;
  “You will not know the pretty thing
    When he is washed and dried.

  “But tell me, dear, before you go
    Unto your daily work,
  Shall I use Ivory soap on him,
    Or Colgate, Pears’ or Kirk?”

  “Odzooks, it matters not a whit—­
    They all are good to use! 
  Take Pearline, if it pleases you—­
    Sapolio, if you choose!

  “Take any soap, but take the pup
    And also water take,
  And mix the three discreetly up
    Till they a lather make.

  “Then mixing these constituent parts,
    Let nature take her way,”
  With such advice that sapient sir
    Had nothing more to say.

  Then fared he to his daily toil
    All in the Board of Trade,
  While Mistress Taylor for that bath
    Due preparations made.

  FITTE THE THIRD.

  She whistled gayly to the pup
    And called him by his name,
  And presently the guileless thing
    All unsuspecting came.

  But when she shut the bath-room door
    And caught him as catch-can,
  And dove him in that odious tub,
    His sorrows then began.

  How did that callow, yellow thing
    Regret that April morn—­
  Alas! how bitterly he rued
    The day that he was born!

  Twice and again, but all in vain
    He lifted up his wail;
  His voice was all the pup could lift,
    For thereby hangs this tale.

  ’Twas by that tail she held him down
    And presently she spread
  The creamery lather on his back,
    His stomach and his head.

  His ears hung down in sorry wise,
    His eyes were, oh! so sad—­
  He looked as though he just had lost
    The only friend he had.

  And higher yet the water rose,
    The lather still increased,
  And sadder still the countenance
    Of that poor martyred beast!