Page:Poems Cook.djvu/156

The warren was sacred, yet he and I dared
To career through its heath till the rabbits were scared:
The gamekeeper threaten'd me Pinch should be shot;
But the threat was by both of us always forgot.

The linen, half-bleach'd, must be rinsed o'er again;
And our footsteps in mud were "remarkably" plain:
The tulips were crush'd, to the gardener's dismay;
And when last we were seen, we were bending that way.

When brought to the bar for the evil we'd done,
Some atrocious spoliation I chose to call "fun!"
Though Pinch was Tiberius, those who might try
Knew well that the active Sejanus was I.

But we weather'd all gales, and the years sped away,
Till his glossy black hide was fast turning to grey;
When accents were heard most alarmingly sad,
Proclaiming that Pincher, my Pincher, was mad.

It was true his fix'd doom was no longer a joke;
He that moment must die: my young heart was nigh broke:
I saw the sure fowling-piece moved from its rest,
And the sob of keen anguish burst forth unsuppress'd.

A shot, a faint howl, and old Pincher was dead:
How I wept while the gardener prepared his last bed!
Something fell on his spade too, wet, sparkling and clear;
Though he said 'twas a dew-drop, I know 'twas a tear.

Our winter-night circle was now incomplete;
We miss'd the fond brute that had snoozed at our feet:
All his virtues were praised, all his mischief forgot,
We landed his merits, and sigh'd o'er his lot.

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