I've something of the bull-dog in my breed,
The spaniel is developed somewhat less;
While life is in me I can fight and bleed,
But never the chastising hand caress.
You say the stroke was well intended. "True."
You mention "It was meant to do me good."
"That may be." "You deserve it." "Granted, too."
"Then take it kindly." "No - I never could."
How many a resolution to amend
Is made, and broken, as the years run round!
And how can others on your word depend,
When faithless to ourselves we're often found?
I've often swore - "Henceforward I'll reform,
And bid my vices, follies, all take wing."
To keep my promise, 'mid temptation's storm,
I've always found was quite another thing.
I saw a donkey going down the road
The other day; a boy was on his back,
Who on the long-eared quadruped bestowed,
With a stout cudgel, many a hearty thwack;
But lazier and lazier grew the beast,
Until he dwindled to a step so slow
That I felt sure 'twould take him, at the least,
Full half-an-hour one blessed mile to go.
Soliloquising on this state of things,
"That moke's like me," I muttered, with a sigh;
"He might go faster if he'd got some wings,
But Nature's made him better off than I;
For though I've all his obstinacy - aye! all -
His sullen spirit, and his dogged ways,
I've not one particle, however small,
Of that praiseworthy patience he displays."
