Ghillie’s recovery from illness.
Our darling Ghill’s no longer ill,
He’s fast recovering from his chill;
His coat is white as driven snow,
Which now on every side doth blow;
When lately ill, he hated light,
Withdrew far back from out our sight,
And crept into a corner cold,
He ne’er did this in days of old.
He barks now lively, full of fun,
Sits up and begs, then off he’ll run
And “Master” says “come catch me quick,
Or if you don’t, I’ll get old Dick
To come outside and with me play
My game of ball” or p’raps he’ll say,
“Your slippers now I’m going to bite,
And make them in a sorry plight”.
Once more he’s at his former games,
His spirit nothing ever tames;
And when he’s ill, he’s plucky too,
He makes no fuss; we never knew
How bad he felt; he nearly dies
Just now, when on the bed he lies
Unlike himself, so tired and worn;
With dread forebodings we were torn.
We joy we don’t his loss bewail,
The truest friend that wagged his tail;
There’s ne’er a doggie like our Ghill,
He’s perfect whether well or ill.
