who would fardels bear and flounder round, When he might sit with Lulu on the lawn And leave his party for his party's good? 

 

 

   TO THE KING'S BULLDOG 

 Dear Brindle,— Possibly your name is not Brindle, But that is of no consequence; The great point, my dear Brindle, being That when his Majesty Edward VII. Landed at Flushing the other day He was accompanied By You. At least so I gather from the halfpenny papers, And I am free to admit That when I read the paragraph Descriptive of your landing at Flushing My bosom swelled with honest pride. I am not a doggy man myself, Dear Brindle, And no judge of points. Also, When I see a dog coming towards me I invariably Whisper "Bite," And consequently My hair Is apt to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porcupine At pretty well every canine approach. Bulldogs especially Affright me, So that I can well understand How the little foreign boy, Assembled at Flushing To scoff in his sleeve at the English King, Remained to flee as it were At the sight of you. That, in a nutshell, Is why my bosom swelled When I read the paragraph To which previous reference has been made. It was a picturesque circumstance, my dear Brindle. And may be taken As one more illustration Of his Majesty's determination (Pray excuse the rhyme) To do things as a king of England should. To have alighted at Flushing Accompanied by a Lion Would have been a little outré, And Unicorns, we know, Are not obtainable— What does his Majesty do? Why he takes, as he always has taken, The middle and dignified course: He disjects himself on Flushing With You by his side. Next to the Lion and the Unicorn The Bulldog may be reckoned The truest Exemplar and symbol Of our great nation. It is like this: The Bulldog is not too beautiful, Neither is our great nation; But he frightens people— So do we; He is tenacious And magnanimous— Which is just our game; He fears no foe in shining armour, Or any other sort of armour— That is precisely our case; And he is kept by Lord Charles Beresford, The Duke of Manchester, And Mr. G. R. Sims— Three eminently typical Britons. In short, The genius of the British nation, My dear Brindle, Is not a policeman But a Bulldog. 

 

 

   TO THE DAILY MAIL 

 (Aug. 3, 1901) 

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