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Wee Sam’s Lament ©

(It’s been said that in Literature, Poetry has no equal?
Till, “Don’t lee yir dug wi Danny” .... the prequel?)

Danny Reynolds
Dalton in Furness, England
2005

Before I tell ye, o his sorry end,
Bear in mind that a dug, is a man’s best friend.

The Background.

Wee Sam wiz a Cumbrian terrier,
a wiry wee black n tan thing.
His hobbies were bouncin and bonkin,
and peein oer everything.
If he wiz still living in these current times,
The Bookies wid stop taking bets.
Aye the poor wee sod’s gone,
Or they’d gee ye “Odds on”,
Fir the first ASBO serving on pets!

His owners wur “Big John n Betty”.
As a pup, he wiz aye at the Vet(ty!)
Ye could never accuse them,
o being misers,
Wi the money spent on sedatives,
As well as tranquillisers.

Full o beans, never still,
Wound up tay High Doe.
Even when he got the snip,
He didnay seem tay know!

Hell mend, any daft visitor,
Who’d gee him a pat or a kiss.
If he didnay try tay hump their leg,
He’d jump up on their lap furra piss.

Up n doon, roon n roon,
He always hud to be busy.
5 minutes watchin, wid even make,
the Tazmanian Devil dizzy.

The Fateful Day.

Becoz o aw his shenannigans,
The only way his owners could cope,
Wiz tay tie him up, tay the back gerden shed,
At the end o a 40 ft rope.

Behind the shed, wiz a big Dry Stane wa,
Which wee Sam could jump ower, nay bother at aw.
He could roam tay the allotments,
Whilst the long rope wiz slack,
And as soon as ye’d shout him,
In a flash, he’d jump back.

Noo, Betty n John wur goin oot fur the day,
They asked me tay watch him, an I said, “Okay.”
In the mornin, the dug wiz quite safe in my charge,
Till I fancied a piece, but we’d ran oot o marge.

“Should I traipse aw the way tay the shops for some grub?”
Naw, I decided tay joost grab some crisps, doon the pub.

Its funny how time flies, when ye cross a pub door.
An how wan or two pints, soon becomes three or four.
I’ve been called a “Loony magnet”, and I huv tay agree.
If there’s a heedcase aboot, he’ll be stood next tay me!
As usual, some Numpty was bendin ma lug,
An I forgot aw aboot, that poor wee dug.

Back at the Hoose.

Sam, thought he’d heard me go oot the front door.
He could neither see, hear or smell me any more.
He looked at the wall, and thought “Where did he hide?”
“I’ll jump ower and look, on the other side."
Noo on the tap o the wall, there were big lumps o mortar.
The rope would wrap round them, so wi each jump got shorter.
Ower and back, then up on the shed,
Then doon on the grass, waitin tay be fed.

Never jump aff a Seven foot shed,
coz it’s wrong.
Specially when the rope left,
is just 4 foot long.

Sam-Gate.

“How wiz yir day oot?
I hope it wiz good.
If ye look in the kitchen,
I’ve made ye some food.
I’ve mowed the back grass,
On the bare bits, thrown seed.
By the way, did I mention,
Yir d-d-dugs deed!”

Wi their peely-wally faces,
They looked awfy sick.
So tay ease their grief, I lied,
“At least it wiz quick!”

I left them alone, by sayin I wiz goin
Next door, coz I’d borrowed some matches.
(No tay mention the sander, the brushes and paint,
which helped cover up aw o the scratches!)

Well I guess there’s no doubt,
That the truth is now out.
John and Betty, ashamed as I am…
I feel almost as bad,
As oor Faither felt mad…
When ye told him you’d called yir dug “Sam!”


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