Dumb he stood with wonder!

Over muddy pool or bog,
Not so nimble as his dog,
When he walked the plank or log,
There his balance losing,
Splash! he went--a rueful plight!
If his face before was white,
'Twas like morning turned to night,
Much against his choosing.

Now, like many a hasty one,
Whether quadruped or gun,
Or a mother's wayward son
Given to disaster,
Harry's gun was rather quick;
And it had a naughty trick,--
It would snap itself, and kick
Fiercely at its master.

So, this snappish habit grew
With a power for him to rue;
Just as all bad habits do
Grow, as age increases.
When, one day, with noise and smoke,
Over-charged, the barrel broke,
Harry's hand the mischief spoke--
It was blown to pieces!

Tray came crouching round, and growled,--