Ghillie’s Illness.
Alas! Our precious Ghillie’s ill,
And suffering from a dreadful chill;
I hope it will not prove his death,
It hurts him much to draw a breath,
We put him in the cosiest chair,
But scare a moment he’ll be there.
He creeps into a corner cold,
But ne’er complains, he’s good as gold;
He always knows what’s for him best,
So there the doggie takes his rest.
The vet to see him came today,
A kindly man, whose hair was grey;
Ghill took his dose without a wail,
But didn’t wag his darling tail;
Your nose is hot, my dearest Ghill,
Sure sign that still you’re very ill.
