knab on't.

He durst t have stood
Stern _Ajax_ Frown,
When Wise _Ulysses_
talk'd him down
In grave _Diebus_
_illis_;
When he by cunning
prating won
The Armour from
fierce Tellamon,
That 'longed to
_Achilles_.

Brave _Drunkard_, oft on
God's dear Ground,
Took such poor Lodging
as he found,
In Town, Field, Camp
or Cottage;
His Bed but cold, his
Dyet thin,
He oft in that poor case
was in,
To want both Meat and
Pottage.

Two rows of Teeth for
Arms he bore,
Which in his Mouth he
always wore,
Which serv'd to fight and
feed too:
His grumbling for his
Drum did pass,
And barking (lowd) his
Ordnance was,
Which help'd in time of
need too.

His Tail his Ensign
he did make,
Which he would oft display
and shake,
Fast in his Poop
uprear'd:
His Powder hot, but
somewhat dank,
His Shot in (scent) most
dangerous rank,
Which sometimes made him
feared.

Thus hath he long serv'd
near and far,
Well known to be a
_Dog of War_,
Though he ne'er shot with
Musket:
Yet Cannons roar or
Culverings,
That whizzing through
the welkin sings,
He slighted as a
Pus-Cat.

For Guns, nor Drums,
nor Trumpets clang.
Nor hunger, cold, nor
many a pang,
Could make him leave his
Master:
In Joy, and in
Adversity,
In Plenty, and in
Poverty,
He often was a
Taster.

Thus serv'd he on the
_Belgia_ Coast,
Yet ne'er was heard to
brag or boast,
Of Services done by
him:
He is no Pharisee
to blow,
A Trumpet, his good
Deeds to show,
'Tis pity to bely
him.

At last he Home return'd
in Peace,
Till Wars, and Jars, and
Scars increase
'Twixt us, and _France_,
in malice:
Away went he and
crost the Sea,
With's Master, to the
Isle of _Rhea_,
A good way beyond
_Callice_.

He was so true, so good,
so kind,
He scorn'd to stay at Home
behind,
And leave his Master
frustrate;
For which could I like
_Ovid_ write,
Or else like _Virgil_ could
indite,
I would his Praise
illustrate.

I wish my Hands could
never stir,
But I do love a
thankf