Ungrateful wretch! that would'st requite
A friendly deed with savage bite,
Acknowledging thy master's good
With pointed teeth and ready blood;
Get thy vile body back to ground,
Thou treacherous, good for nothing hound.
Is it for this that thou dost live,
To torture them that come to give?
Be sure, if I had come a foe,
Thous'd'st kept thy craven body low;
Thour'd'st let me slip without a sound,
Thou crazy, curst, contentious hound.
What evil have I done to thee,
To wreak thy vengeance out on me?
Now in my joints I halt and limp,
Stung with thy pain, thou noxious imp!
Thy teeth have made a bloody wound,
Thou snarling, base, rebellious hound.
Last night, when burglars, far and near,
Struck every heart with sudden fear,
Deep in thy fusty, stinking sty,
Thou slumbered'st with a heavy eye;
While prowling thieves robbed close around,
Thou greedy, yelling, useless hound.
The farmyard cock, that chants so free,
Is far to be preferred to thee,
For at the first faint sound at night
He up and crows with all his might,
And wakes the neighbours with a bound,
Thou lazy, sneaking snakish hound.
Thus is it always while we live,
We're never thanked for what we give;
The good must suffer and the wise,
The fool alone enjoys the prize;
Envy will strike you down to ground
Most like this vicious, snarling hound.
Poems index
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