The Placid Pug, and Other Rhymes. Douglas Alfred Bruce

Douglas

      The Placid Pug, and Other Rhymes

      THE PLACID PUG

      THE placid Pug that paces in the Park,

      Harnessed in silk and led by leathern lead,

      Lives his dull life, and recks not of the Shark

      In distant waters. Lapped in sloth and greed,

      He fails in strenuous life to make a mark,

      The placid Pug that paces in the park.

      Round the slow circle of his nights and days

      His life revolves in calm monotony.

      Not unsusceptible to casual praise,

      And mildly moved by the approach of "tea,"

      No forked and jagged lightning leaps and plays

      Round the slow circle of his nights and days.

      He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes,

      To mark the mood of animals or men.

      His joy is limited to mild surmise

      When a new biscuit swims into his ken.

      And when athwart his gaze a Rabbit flies,

      He scarcely turns his round protuberant eyes.

      And all the while the Shark in Southern seas

      Pursues the paths of his pulsating quest,

      Though the thermometer at fierce degrees

      Might well admonish him to take a rest,

      The Pug at home snores in ignoble ease.

      (And all the while the Shark in Southern seas!)

      If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea

      And forced to swim long miles to find their food,

      Tutored to front the Hake's hostility,

      And beard the Lobster in his dangerous mood,

      Would not their lives more sane, more useful be,

      If Pugs like Sharks were brought up in the sea?

      The placid Pug still paces in the park,

      Untouched by thoughts of all that might have been.

      Undreaming that he might have "steered his bark"

      Through many a stirring sight and stormy scene.

      But being born a Pug and not a Shark

      The placid Pug still paces in the park.

      BALLAD FOR BISHOPS

      BISHOPS and others who inhabit

      The mansions of the blest on earth,

      Grieved by decline of infant birth,

      Have drawn attention to the rabbit.

      Not by design these good men work

      To raise that beast to heights contested,

      But by comparison, suggested,

      With those who procreation shirk.

      For if a nation's moral status

      Be measured by prolific habit,

      Between man and the meanest rabbit

      There is an evident hiatus.

      Each year, by lowest computations,

      Six times the rabbit rears her young,

      And frequent marriages among

      The very closest blood relations

      In very tender years ensure

      A constant stream of "little strangers,"

      Who, quickly grown to gallant rangers,

      See that their families endure.

      Not theirs to shirk paternal cares,

      Moved by considerations sordid,

      A child can always "be afforded";

      The same applies to Belgian hares.

      These noble brutes, pure Duty's pendants,

      May live to see their blood vermilion

      Coursing through something like a billion

      Wholly legitimate descendants.

      Knowledge's path is hard and stony,

      And some may read who unaware are

      That rabbit brown and Belgian hare are

      Both members of the genus Coney.

      The common hare, who lives in fields

      And never goes into a hole,

      (In this inferior to the mole)

      In all things to the Belgian yields.

      He will, immoral brute, decline

      To multiply domestic "pledges,"

      The family he rears in hedges

      Is often limited to nine.

      Such shocking want of savoir faire,

      (Surely a symptom of insanity)

      Might goad a Bishop to profanity

      Were it not for the Belgian hare.

      SONG FOR VINTNERS

      THE Lion laps the limpid lake,

      The Pard refuses wine,

      The sinuous Lizard and the Snake,

      The petulant Porcupine,

      Agree in this, their thirst to quench

      Only with Nature's natural "drench."

      In vain with beer you tempt the Deer,

      Or lure the Marmozet;

      The early morning Chanticleer,

      The painted Parroquet,

      Alike, on claret and champagne

      Gaze with unfaltering disdain.

      No ale or spirit tempts the Ferret,

      No juice of grape the Toad.

      In vain towards the "Harp and Merit"

      The patient Ox you goad;

      Not his in rapture to extol

      The praises of the flowing bowl.

      The silent Spider laughs at cider,

      The Horse despises port;

      The Crocodile (whose mouth is wider

      Than any other sort)

      Prefers the waters of the Nile

      To any of a stronger style.