VI

     Well, well!  Not beaten—­spite of them, I shout;
     And my estate is suffering for the Cause. —
     No,—­what is yon brown water-rat about,
     Who washes his old poll with busy paws? 
     What does he mean by’t? 
     It’s like defying all our natural laws,
     For him to hope that he’ll get clean by’t.

     VII

     His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade
     Is dirt:- he’s quite contemptible; and yet
     The fellow’s all as anxious as a maid
     To show a decent dress, and dry the wet. 
     Now it’s his whisker,
     And now his nose, and ear:  he seems to get
     Each moment at the motion brisker!

     VIII

     To see him squat like little chaps at school,
     I could let fly a laugh with all my might. 
     He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool,
     He’s bobbing at his frill now!—­what a sight! 
     Licking the dish up,
     As if he thought to pass from black to white,
     Like parson into lawny bishop.

     IX

     The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
     Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side;
     And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
     And shine up doubled with him in the tide. 
     I’m nearly splitting,
     But nature seems like seconding his pride,
     And thinks that his behaviour’s fitting.

     X

     That isle o’ mud looks baking dry with gold. 
     His needle-muzzle still works out and in. 
     It really is a wonder to behold,
     And makes me feel the bristles of my chin. 
     Judged by appearance,
     I fancy of the two I’m nearer Sin,
     And might as well commence a clearance.

     XI

     And that’s what my fine daughter said:- she meant: 
     Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face. 
     Her husband, the young linendraper, spent
     Much argument thereon:- I’m their disgrace. 
     Bother the couple! 
     I feel superior to a chap whose place
     Commands him to be neat and supple.

     XII

     But if I go and say to my old hen: 
     I’ll mend the gentry’s boots, and keep discreet,
     Until they grow too violent,—­why, then,
     A warmer welcome I might chance to meet: 
     Warmer and better. 
     And if she fancies her old cock is beat,
     And drops upon her knees—­so let her!

     XIII

     She suffered for me:- women, you’ll observe,
     Don’t suffer for a Cause, but for a man. 
     When I was in the dock she show’d her nerve: 
     I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can
     Trembling . . . she brought it
     To screw me for my work:  she loath’d my plan,
     And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

     XIV