Bruno

Because, forsooth, my honest friend 
     Is built with two more feet than I, 
Must my instinctive love contend
     Against a tide of obloquy?
Can no affections condescend?
     What hope then from on high?

I know he wears his shaggy coat
     Always in one unvarying style;
The whimsies that in men we note, 
     Of dudes who bask in fashion's smile, 
Are from his manners far remote;
     He scorns her subtlest wile.

'Tis true he has no speech, alas!
     I would indeed it were not.so;
But there is many a Baalim's ass
     Whose speaking has less wit to show!
His meanings have a way to pass
     That's neither poor nor slow.

In tenderness his hazel eye
     I trow, might match your fondest girl's;
The locks about his neck could vie
     With daintiest of her auburn curls;
His teeth are whiter than her tie
     Of oriental pearls!

Add to his beauty, he is brave, 
     A lover of the stormy sea;—
It was his happy chance to save 
     A boy or two, and come with glee, 
Shaking the salt spray of the wave 
     Over the sand — and me.

He saved a kitten just the same,
     Some biped lubbers strove to drown, 
And proudly to his feet he came 
     And laid the panting trophy down.
The fellow with disgust or shame
     Went shuffling back to town.

When baby in her little chaise
     Goes riding forth to take the air, 
You'd smile at his protecting ways,
     So dignified and debonaire.
Should any stray cur stop to gaze
     He warns him to beware!

He watches over Dora's sleep,
     By busy mamma left in charge, 
With half-shut eyes that slyly peep 
     Under the low lid's fringed marge,
All ready at a stir to leap 
     On little foes, or large.

It is the liveliest of his joys,
     When sober duties leave him free,
To leap and frolic with the boys,
     None shouting merrier than he;
If mirth be measured by the noise, 
     What boy could happier be?

Such genuine love and faithfulness
     Would make of mortal man a saint;
Why should his honest praise be less, 
     Because his language is so quaint?
There is some sort of Heaven, I guess, 
     For loves that never faint!

Good Bruno! while I clasp your feet, 
     And look into your earnest eyes, 
 will not doubt that we shall meet 
     In some all-loving Paradise.
The bowers of bliss were incomplete
     Where any true love dies!