The Pigeon Toad’s a funny little beast,He’s found in every land from West to East.The children bring him in, to our amaze,And though we try to turn him out, he stays.He’s never seen with soldiers, nor with fops,But with the schoolboys how he jumps and hops.

The Saw-Buck is a fearsome beast.The tramp objects to it, at least.When to the housewife he appliesFor coffee or for apple-pies,Right speedily he’ll turn and leave herWhen he is seized with Saw-Buck Fever.

The Shuttlecock’s a handsome fowl to see,His feathers grow straight upward like a tree.He cannot crow, but oftentimes his flightWill reach up to a most astounding height.He is a gamecock, and, in fighting trim,There are not many birds that equal him.

Here’s the Spring Chicken. I have heardThey manufacture this queer birdFrom bits of leather and of stringsAll joined and worked by tiny springs.Whenever this fine fowl is broiled,Each of his springs should be well oiled,Or he may spring across the roomAnd plunge his carver into gloom.

Here’s the Gold Eagle. Very rare. They sayThis bird is worth ten dollars any day.He has no wings, apparently, yet IOr you, or anyone can make him fly.He’s very powerful–held in great esteem;And money talks, so let the eagle scream.

This useful animal we keepTo guard our treasure while we sleep.A pointer, not a setter, yetHe’s of no use unless he’s set.Gaze on his open, honest face,–There’s no deception in his case.He is attached to us, ’tis plain,Though often by a slender chain.

This is the Bumblepuppy. He’s quite tame,Although he’s said to be a sort of game.You scorn him, yet you must–ah, there’s the rub–Accept him at your table or your club.He has his points, yet he’s a pest, indeed;I would we could exterminate the breed.

Perhaps because it’s easily approached,The Golden Buck’s a game that’s often poached.‘Tis sometimes mild, again ’tis strong and hearty,It may be found at many a gay stag-party.No branching antlers this strange beast adorn,But with the Golden Buck we take a horn.

Misled by certain signs of form and shape,Some think we are descended from the ape.But recent science now the truth declaresThe human race descended from Forebears.And since we’re so inclined to war, I’ll wagerOne of our Forebears was the Ursa Major.

Among the stock jokes it is oft averredThe Irish Bull is best of all the heard.He has no points, he has no head or tail,But many a jovial party he’ll regale.And all his hearers will with laughter choke,Except his brother John, who sees no joke.

Of all the fearsome beasts beneath the sunThe Bugbear is the most appalling one.At night he comes and hovers o’er our bed,Filling us with a nameless fear and dread.He is not half so terrible by day–Sometimes he shrinks and dwindles quite away.

The High Horse often takes a foremost placeAmong the winners of the human race.They say one needs both brawn and brain to ride him,And even then ’tis very hard to guide him.His jockeys gaily prance and boldly scoff,But soon or late they’re sure to tumble off.