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Poem by Eugene Field


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.



Eugene Field


Eugene Field's other poems:
  1. With Two Spoons for Two Spoons
  2. Mary Smith
  3. The Great Journalist in Spain
  4. Guess
  5. The Jaffa and Jerusalem Railway


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