Retirement? Oh, rubbish! Tykes currish or cubbish

May curl up in kennels, or snug up in straw,

But dogs of right mettle to rest will not settle,

While sight's in the eye, and while snap's in the jaw.

A bed in a basket? Mere mongrels may ask it.

A couch and a cushion? They're lap-dog delights.

But pluck and true breeding, such comforts unheeding,

Desert laps and hearth-rugs for frolics and fights.

Retired! How rats chortle! Like "Rab" the immortal

This dog scorns dull rest, and is still "rough on rats."

As always delighting in "plenty o' fechting,"

He pricks up his ears at a whisper of "s-s-scats!"

Aslumber and dreaming? Oh, that is mere seeming,

Curled up tail to muzzle in cosiest sort.

His hairs are a-bristle at whisper or whistle

That gives the least promise of scrimmage or sport.

On rats he's still ruthless! They may think him toothless,

Those red Turkish rodents who once felt his fangs.

Ah! eighteen years earlier his coat was much curlier,

Now white and whispy sparse-scattered it hangs.

But years though they roughen his hide, seem to toughen

The muscles and nerves of this rare sporting tyke.

The rattling old ratter is still game to scatter

A pitful of vermin, of what breed you like.

The Istamboul sort are his favourite sport,

Rabid rodents who raven, red-fanged, in foul hordes,

Turco sewer-bred legions, who earth's fairest regions

Would ravage like Tamerlane's Tartar-swung swords.

Terrors untameable, horrors unnameable,

Mark their maraudings and hang on their track.

Now in fresh numbers they swarm, whilst he slumbers

Who once was the plague of the pestilent pack.

But—Who said—Atrocities? Old animosities

Wake in his spirit and stir in his blood.

Eh? What? Retirement? Nay, not if requirement,

Or prospect of sport, move the old champion's mood.

His heart has not deadened; his old eyes have reddened

With love of the fray and the old righteous wrath.

The varmint old ratter his old foes would scatter.

"Auld Rab" once again will be on the war-path!

"They grew in beauty side by side,

They filled one home with glee"—

Until that evening at dessert

You passed the nuts to me.

Then came the "crack of doom," the twins

No sooner had you seen

Than, "Oh, what fun!" you said, "we'll have

A Bon jour, Philippine!"

"They grew in beauty side by side,

They filled one home with glee"—

Until they found respective graves

Alas! in you and me.

And then to win a gift next morn

We vowed with solemn mien,

Whoe'er should greet the other first

With "Bon jour, Philippine!"

"Bon jour"—I dreamt of it all night,

At dawn recalled it yet,

But clean forgot it whilst I shaved—

At breakfast then we met.

I'd only time, I know, to think

Maid sweeter ne'er was seen,

When you, with laughter-dancing eyes,

Cried, "Bon jour, Philippine!"

And so you won a gift from me,

And chose that I should write

These verses, which I've pondered o'er

For many a sleepless night!

I'll never crack another nut,

When you are there, I mean;

Yet may you greet me often—save

With "Bon jour, Philippine!"