[Illustration]
I wonder what on earth it is
That makes me think my lady's poodle
(Her minion smug of solemn phiz,)
The pink and pattern of a noodle:
Its eyes are deep; their look, serene;
Its lips are sensitive and smiling;
But oh! the gross effect, I ween,
Is, passing measure, dull and riling.
It is not that its locks are crisp;
Your humble servant's hair is crisper,
It is not that its accents lisp;
I, too, affect a stammered whisper:
Nor that a gorgeous bow it wears
And struts with particoloured bib on;
I like these macaronic airs;
I'm very fond of rainbow ribbon.
Nor can it be--of this I'm sure--
Because she pampers all its wishes
And tempts her peevish epicure
With dainty meats in dainty dishes.
To tell the truth, while _I'm_ her guest,
_My_ little wants and whims she studies;
If "Beau"'s a rival, I protest
No jealous tincture in my blood is.
I wonder, wonder, at a loss
To justify such wayward snarling--
It makes her very, _very_ cross
My poor opinion of her darling;
The cause (should pride the cause withhold,
She bodes and I deserve a scrimmage,)
The cause is this--she calls, I'm told,
The little brute my "_Living image!_"
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