In your newspaper insert I beg,
Lines from a poor dog who has lost his leg.
I wrote before in prose; this second time
I’ll add some more particulars in rhyme.
Not that my former narrative has failed.
But a wag said t’was, like myself, cur tailed.
My mother lived at Lewes Station. Who
My father was I know no more than you.
‘Tis a wise child’- no! stay, it should be rather
‘Tis a wise puppy-dog who knows his father.
My education was neglected: I was put in
Rails, sleepers, boilers, buffers – not Dog – Latin.
A kindly stoker – one whose name was Lockit –
When I was little put me in his pocket.
From’thence I peeped upon the shifting scene,
And went to London, York and Aberdeen.
He often changed his line, and homes I found
In Midland, Northern, Western Underground.
I never went to church: I could not stay
At fifty parish churches in a day.
‘Twas always very hot upon the engine,
And I occasionally got a singeing,
I yelped, no doubt; but, loud as was my cry,
The engine screamed more loudly still than I.
The Railway laws I scarcely ever broke, –
Not to tip porters, cross the line, nor smoke. –
Till one sad day I ventured to transgress,
And hence arose my unhappiness.
I’m older now, and hope I have a ripe head;
Excuse the phrase; I want a rhyme to tripod.
I called the man who made me so a thick – head
He snapped my leg, as porters do a ticket,
A quadruped no longer I can be,
Nor walk on four legs, but must limp on three.
Bipeds are tripods when they use a crutch;
No better off than I am, – or not much.
I still can travel: Never may I lack
The pluck which gained the name of