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Eugene Field - The Bench-Legged
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Speakin` of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce
Hed most o` the virtues, an` nary a vice.
Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose
From his predisposition to chronic repose;
But, rouse his ambition, he couldn`t be beat -
Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!

Mos` dorgs hez some forte - like huntin` an` such,
But the sports o` the field didn`t bother him much;
Wuz just a plain dorg, an` contented to be
On peaceable terms with the neighbors an` me;
Used to fiddle an` squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"
When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!

He wuz long in the bar`l, like a fyce oughter be;
His color wuz yaller as ever you see;
His tail, curlin` upward, wuz long, loose, an` slim -
When he didn`t wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!
His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pup
Wuz as tall settin` down as he wuz standin` up!

He`d lie by the stove of a night an` regret
The various vittles an` things he had et;
When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along,
He`d lift up his voice in significant song -
You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space
In that bosom o` his`n to hold so much bass!

Of daytimes he`d sneak to the road an` lie down,
An` tackle the country dorgs comin` to town;
By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe,
For what he took hold of he never let go!
An` a dude that come courtin` our girl left a slice
Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!

He wuz good to us kids - when we pulled at his fur
Or twisted his tail he would never demur;
He seemed to enjoy all our play an` our chaff,
For his tongue `u`d hang out an` he`d laff an` he`d laff;
An` once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,
He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce!

We all hev our choice, an` you, like the rest,
Allow that the dorg which you`ve got is the best;
I wouldn`t give much for the boy `at grows up
With no friendship subsistin` `tween him an` a pup!
When a fellow gits old - I tell you it`s nice
To think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!

To think of the springtime `way back in St. Joe -
Of the peach-trees abloom an` the daisies ablow;
To think of the play in the medder an` grove,
When little legs wrassled an` little han`s strove;
To think of the loyalty, valor, an` truth
Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!
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