But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength. Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation, whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt,-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt!-- 'Twas "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk." And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair. * * * * * The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.