The Ballad Of The Taylor Pup

Now lithe and listen, gentles all,     Now lithe ye all and hark     Unto a ballad I shall sing     About Buena Park.     Of all the wonders happening there     The strangest hap befell     Upon a famous Aprile morn,     As I you now shall tell.     It is about the Taylor pup     And of his mistress eke     And of the prankish time they had     That I am fain to speak. FITTE THE FIRST     The pup was of as noble mien     As e'er you gazed upon;     They called his mother Lady     And his father was a Don.     And both his mother and his sire     Were of the race Bernard--     The family famed in histories     And hymned of every bard.     His form was of exuberant mold,     Long, slim, and loose of joints;     There never yet was pointer-dog     So full as he of points.     His hair was like to yellow fleece,     His eyes were black and kind,     And like a nodding, gilded plume     His tail stuck up behind.     His bark was very, very fierce,     And fierce his appetite,     Yet was it only things to eat     That he was prone to bite.     But in that one particular     He was so passing true     That never did he quit a meal     Until he had got through.     Potatoes, biscuits, mush or hash,     Joint, chop, or chicken limb--     So long as it was edible,     'T was all the same to him!     And frequently when Hunger's pangs     Assailed that callow pup,     He masticated boots and gloves     Or chewed a door-mat up.     So was he much beholden of     The folk that him did keep;     They loved him when he was awake     And better still asleep. FITTE THE SECOND     Now once his master, lingering o'er     His breakfast coffee-cup,     Observed unto his doting spouse:     "You ought to wash the pup!"     "That shall I do this very day",     His doting spouse replied;     "You will not know the pretty thing     When he is washed and dried.     "But tell me, dear, before you go     Unto your daily work,     Shall I use Ivory soap on him,     Or Colgate, Pears' or Kirk?"     "Odzooks, it matters not a whit--     They all are good to use!     Take Pearline, if it pleases you--     Sapolio, if you choose!     "Take any soap, but take the pup     And also water take,     And mix the three discreetly up     Till they a lather make.     "Then mixing these constituent parts,     Let Nature take her way,"     With which advice that sapient sir     Had nothing more to say.     Then fared he to his daily toil     All in the Board of Trade,     While Mistress Taylor for that bath     Due preparation made. FITTE THE THIRD     She whistled gayly to the pup     And called him by his name,     And presently the guileless thing     All unsuspecting came.     But when she shut the bath-room door,     And caught him as catch-can,     And hove him in that odious tub,     His sorrows then began.     How did that callow, yallow thing     Regret that Aprile morn--     Alas! how bitterly he rued     The day that he was born!     Twice and again, but all in vain     He lifted up his wail;     His voice was all the pup could lift,     For thereby hangs this tale.     'Twas by that tail she held him down,     And presently she spread     The creamy lather on his back,     His stomach, and his head.     His ears hung down in sorry wise,     His eyes were, oh! so sad--     He looked as though he just had lost     The only friend he had.     And higher yet the water rose,     The lather still increased,     And sadder still the countenance     Of that poor martyred beast!     Yet all the time his mistress spoke     Such artful words of cheer     As "Oh, how nice!" and "Oh, how clean!"     And "There's a patient dear!"     At last the trial had an end,     At last the pup was free;     She threw aside the bath-room door--     "Now get you gone!" quoth she. FITTE THE FOURTH     Then from that tub and from that room     He gat with vast ado;     At every hop he gave a shake,     And--how the water flew!     He paddled down the winding stairs     And to the parlor hied,     Dispensing pools of foamy suds     And slop on every side.     Upon the carpet then he rolled     And brushed against the wall,     And, horror! whisked his lathery sides     On overcoat and shawl.     Attracted by the dreadful din,     His mistress came below--     Who, who can speak her wonderment--     Who, who can paint her woe!     Great smears of soap were here and there--     Her startled vision met     With blobs of lather everywhere,     And everything was wet!     Then Mrs. Taylor gave a shriek     Like one about to die:     "Get out--get out, and don't you dare     Come in till you are dry!"     With that she opened wide the door     And waved the critter through;     Out in the circumambient air     With grateful yelps he flew. FITTE THE FIFTH     He whisked into the dusty street     And to the Waller lot,     Where bonnie Annie Evans played     With charming Sissy Knott.     And with those pretty little dears     He mixed himself all up--     Oh, fie upon such boisterous play--     Fie, fie, you naughty pup!     Woe, woe on Annie's India mull,     And Sissy's blue percale!     One got that pup's belathered flanks,     And one his soapy tail!     Forth to the rescue of those maids     Rushed gallant Willie Clow;     His panties they were white and clean--     Where are those panties now?     Where is the nicely laundered shirt     That Kendall Evans wore,     And Robbie James' tricot coat     All buttoned up before?     The leaven, which, as we are told,     Leavens a monstrous lump,     Hath far less reaching qualities     Than a wet pup on the jump.     This way and that he swung and swayed,     He gambolled far and near,     And everywhere he thrust himself     He left a soapy smear. FITTE THE SIXTH     That noon a dozen little dears     Were spanked and put to bed     With naught to stay their appetites     But cheerless crusts of bread.     That noon a dozen hired girls     Washed out each gown and shirt     Which that exuberant Taylor pup     Had frescoed o'er with dirt.     That whole day long the Aprile sun     Smiled sweetly from above     On clotheslines flaunting to the breeze     The emblems mothers love.     That whole day long the Taylor pup     This way and that did hie     Upon his mad, erratic course,     Intent on getting dry.     That night when Mr. Taylor came     His vesper meal to eat,     He uttered things my pious pen     Would liefer not repeat.     Yet still that noble Taylor pup     Survives to romp and bark     And stumble over folks and things     In fair Buena Park.     Good sooth, I wot he should be called     Buena's favorite son     Who's sired of such a noble sire     And dammed by every one!