Epitaph On A Hare.

Here lies, whom hound did neer pursue,     Nor swifter greyhound follow,     Whose foot neer tainted morning dew,     Nor ear heard huntsmans halloo;     Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,     Who, nursed with tender care,     And to domestic bounds confined,     Was still a wild Jack hare.     Though duly from my hand he took     His pittance every night,     He did it with a jealous look,     And, when he could, would bite.     His diet was of wheaten bread     And milk, and oats, and straw;     Thistles, or lettuces instead,     With sand to scour his maw.     On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,     On pippins russet peel,     And, when his juicy salads faild,     Sliced carrot pleased him well.     A Turkey carpet was his lawn,     Whereon he loved to bound,     To skip and gamble like a fawn,     And swing his rump around.     His frisking was at evening hours,     For then he lost his fear,     But most before approaching showers,     Or when a storm drew near.     Eight years and five round rolling moons     He thus saw steal away,     Dozing out all his idle noons,     And every night at play.     I kept him for his humours sake,     For he would oft beguile     My heart of thoughts that made it ache,     And force me to a smile.     But now beneath this walnut shade     He finds his long last home,     And waits, in snug concealment laid,     Till gentler Puss shall come.     He, still more aged, feels the shocks,     From which no care can save,     And, partner once of Tineys box,     Must soon partake his grave.