With a pipe between his lips, Two young dogs upon his hips, Jogs along old Caspar Sly; How that man can smoke,--oh, my! But although the pipe-bowl glows Red and hot beneath his nose; Yet his heart is icy-cold; How can earth such wretches hold! "Of what earthly use to me Can such brutes," he mutters, "be? Do they earn their vittles? No! 'Tis high time I let 'em go. What you don't want, fling away! Them's my sentiments, I say!" O'er the pond he silent bends, For to drown them he intends. With their legs the quadrupeds Kick and squirm,--can't move their heads And the inner voice speaks out: How 't will end we gravely doubt. _Hubs!_--an airy curve one makes; _Plish!_--a headlong dive he takes. H…
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