  SIR BAT-EARS was a dog of birth And bred in Aberdeen, But he favoured not his noble kin And so his lot is mean, And Sir Bat-ears sits by the alms-houses On the stones with grass between. Under the ancient archway His pleasure is to wait Between the two stone pine-apples That flank the weathered gate; And old, old alms-persons go by, All rusty, bent and black "Good day, good day, Sir Bat-ears!" They say and stroke his back. And old, old alms-persons go by, Shaking and wellnigh dead, "Good night, good night, Sir Bat-ears!" They say and pat his head. So courted and considered He sits out hour by hour, Benignant in the sunshine And prudent in the shower. (Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm And stiffly breast the rain, That rising when the cloud is gone He leaves a circle of dry stone Whereon to sit again.) A dozen little door-steps Under the arch are seen, A dozen agÈd alms-persons To keep them bright and clean; Two wrinkled hands to scour each step With a square of yellow stone— But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws Bespeckle every one. And little eats an alms-person, But, though his board be bare, There never lacks a bone of the best To be Sir Bats-ears' share. Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose, He quests from door to door; Their grace they say, his shadow grey Is instant on the floor— Humblest of all the dogs there be, A pensioner of the poor. |
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