Sixteen years, now almost seventeen, I’ve played at stick and ball, stayed seldom still until good master’s call would whistle shrill to lead me back – no need to smack. Sight keen. Sixteen years tail’s wagged as faithful friend, as boon companion, running round fun years. His mother passed away, I shared the tears that fountained forth and never seemed to end. Sixteen years round each revolving moon from hearth and home I pick up slightest sound, ears prick, eyes bright, in sight I’m always found to hold my ground, though often play buffoon.