I am quite sure he thinks that I am God—Since he is God on whom each one dependsFor life, and all things that his bounty sends—My dear old dog, most constant of all friends;Not quick to mind, but quicker far than ITo him whom God I know and own; his eye,Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod;He is more patient underneath the rodThan I, when God his wise corrections sends.He looks love at me deep as words e'er spake,And from me never crumb or sup will takeBut he wags thanks with his most vocal tail.And when some crashing noise wakes all his fearHe is content and quiet if I'm near,Secure that my protection will prevail!So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, heTells me what I unto my God should be.
I am quite sure he thinks that I am God—Since he is God on whom each one dependsFor life, and all things that his bounty sends—My dear old dog, most constant of all friends;
Not quick to mind, but quicker far than ITo him whom God I know and own; his eye,Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod;He is more patient underneath the rod
Than I, when God his wise corrections sends.He looks love at me deep as words e'er spake,And from me never crumb or sup will takeBut he wags thanks with his most vocal tail.
And when some crashing noise wakes all his fearHe is content and quiet if I'm near,Secure that my protection will prevail!
So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, heTells me what I unto my God should be.
William Croswell Doane.
If I was sad, then he had grief, as well—Seeking my hands with soft insistent paw,Searching my face with anxious eyes that sawMore than my halting, human speech could tell;Eyes wide with wisdom, fine, compassionate—Dear, loyal one, that knew not wrong nor hate.If I made merry—then how he would striveTo show his joy; "Good master, let's to play,The world is ours," that gladsome bark would say;"Just yours and mine—'tis fun to be alive!"Our world ... four walls above the city's din,My crutch the bar that ever held us in.Whate'er my mood—the fretful word, or sweet,The swift command, the wheedling undertone,His faith was fixed, his love was mine, alone,His heaven was here at my slow crippled feet:Oh, friend thrice-lost; oh, fond heart unassailed,Ye taught me trust when man's dull logic failed.
If I was sad, then he had grief, as well—Seeking my hands with soft insistent paw,Searching my face with anxious eyes that sawMore than my halting, human speech could tell;Eyes wide with wisdom, fine, compassionate—Dear, loyal one, that knew not wrong nor hate.
If I made merry—then how he would striveTo show his joy; "Good master, let's to play,The world is ours," that gladsome bark would say;"Just yours and mine—'tis fun to be alive!"Our world ... four walls above the city's din,My crutch the bar that ever held us in.
Whate'er my mood—the fretful word, or sweet,The swift command, the wheedling undertone,His faith was fixed, his love was mine, alone,His heaven was here at my slow crippled feet:Oh, friend thrice-lost; oh, fond heart unassailed,Ye taught me trust when man's dull logic failed.
Meribah Abbott.
When living seems but little worthAnd all things go awry,I close the door, we journey forth—My dog and I!For books and pen we leave behind,But little careth he,His one great joy in life is justTo be with me.He notes by just one upward glanceMy mental attitude,As on we go past laughing streamAnd singing wood.The soft winds have a magic touchThat brings to care release,The trees are vocal with delight,The rivers sing of peace.How good it is to be alive!Nature, the healer strong,Has set each pulse with life athrillAnd joy and song.Discouragement! 'Twas but a name,And all things that annoy,Out in the lovely world of JuneLife seemeth only joy!And ere we reach the busy town,Like birds my troubles fly,We are two comrades glad of heart—My dog and I!
When living seems but little worthAnd all things go awry,I close the door, we journey forth—My dog and I!
For books and pen we leave behind,But little careth he,His one great joy in life is justTo be with me.
He notes by just one upward glanceMy mental attitude,As on we go past laughing streamAnd singing wood.
The soft winds have a magic touchThat brings to care release,The trees are vocal with delight,The rivers sing of peace.
How good it is to be alive!Nature, the healer strong,Has set each pulse with life athrillAnd joy and song.
Discouragement! 'Twas but a name,And all things that annoy,Out in the lovely world of JuneLife seemeth only joy!
And ere we reach the busy town,Like birds my troubles fly,We are two comrades glad of heart—My dog and I!
Alice J. Cleator.
I own a dog who is a gentleman;By birth most surely, since the creature canBoast of a pedigree the like of whichHolds not a Howard nor a Metternich.By breeding. Since the walks of life he trodHe never wagged an unkind tale abroad,He never snubbed a nameless cur becauseWithout a friend or credit card he was.By pride. He looks you squarely in the faceUnshrinking and without a single traceOf either diffidence or arrogantAssertion such as upstarts often flaunt.By tenderness. The littlest girl may tearWith absolute impunity his hair,And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the whileHe smiles upon her—yes, I've seen him smile.By loyalty. No truer friend than heHas come to prove his friendship's worth to me.He does not fear the master—knows no fear—But loves the man who is his master here.By countenance. If there be nobler eyes,More full of honor and of honesties,In finer head, on broader shoulders found,Then have I never met the man or hound.Here is the motto on my lifeboat's log:"God grant I may be worthy of my dog!"
I own a dog who is a gentleman;By birth most surely, since the creature canBoast of a pedigree the like of whichHolds not a Howard nor a Metternich.
By breeding. Since the walks of life he trodHe never wagged an unkind tale abroad,He never snubbed a nameless cur becauseWithout a friend or credit card he was.
By pride. He looks you squarely in the faceUnshrinking and without a single traceOf either diffidence or arrogantAssertion such as upstarts often flaunt.
By tenderness. The littlest girl may tearWith absolute impunity his hair,And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the whileHe smiles upon her—yes, I've seen him smile.
By loyalty. No truer friend than heHas come to prove his friendship's worth to me.He does not fear the master—knows no fear—But loves the man who is his master here.
By countenance. If there be nobler eyes,More full of honor and of honesties,In finer head, on broader shoulders found,Then have I never met the man or hound.
Here is the motto on my lifeboat's log:"God grant I may be worthy of my dog!"
Anonymous.
Day after day I have come and satBeseechingly upon the mat,Wistfully wondering where you are at.Why have they placed you on the wall,So deathly still, so strangely tall?You do not turn from me, nor call.Why do I never hear my name?Why are you fastened in a frame?You are the same, and not the same.Away from me why do you stareSo far out in the distance whereI am not? I am here! Not there!What has your little doggie done?You used to whistle me to runBeside you, or ahead, for fun!You used to pat me, and a glowOf pleasure through my life would go!How is it that I shiver so?My tail was once a waving flagOf welcome. Now I cannot wagIt for the weight I have to drag.I know not what has come to me.'Tis only in my sleep I seeThings smiling as they used to be.I do not dare to bark; I pleadBut dumbly, and you never heed;Nor my protection seem to need.I watch the door, I watch the gate;I am watching early, watching late,Your doggie still!—I watch and wait.
Day after day I have come and satBeseechingly upon the mat,Wistfully wondering where you are at.
Why have they placed you on the wall,So deathly still, so strangely tall?You do not turn from me, nor call.
Why do I never hear my name?Why are you fastened in a frame?You are the same, and not the same.
Away from me why do you stareSo far out in the distance whereI am not? I am here! Not there!
What has your little doggie done?You used to whistle me to runBeside you, or ahead, for fun!
You used to pat me, and a glowOf pleasure through my life would go!How is it that I shiver so?
My tail was once a waving flagOf welcome. Now I cannot wagIt for the weight I have to drag.
I know not what has come to me.'Tis only in my sleep I seeThings smiling as they used to be.
I do not dare to bark; I pleadBut dumbly, and you never heed;Nor my protection seem to need.
I watch the door, I watch the gate;I am watching early, watching late,Your doggie still!—I watch and wait.
Gerald Massey.
Happiest of the spaniel race,Painter, with thy colors grace,Draw his forehead large and high,Draw his blue and humid eye;Draw his neck, so smooth and round,Little neck with ribands bound;And the musely swelling breastWhere the Loves and Graces rest;And the spreading, even back,Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;And the tail that gently twines,Like the tendrils of the vines;And the silky twisted hair,Shadowing thick the velvet ear;Velvet ears which, hanging low,O'er the veiny temples flow.
Happiest of the spaniel race,Painter, with thy colors grace,Draw his forehead large and high,Draw his blue and humid eye;Draw his neck, so smooth and round,Little neck with ribands bound;And the musely swelling breastWhere the Loves and Graces rest;And the spreading, even back,Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;And the tail that gently twines,Like the tendrils of the vines;And the silky twisted hair,Shadowing thick the velvet ear;Velvet ears which, hanging low,O'er the veiny temples flow.
Jonathan Swift.
Hast seenThe record written of Salah-ud-Deen,The Sultan—how he met, upon a day,In his own city on the public way,A woman whom they led to die? The veilWas stripped from off her weeping face, and paleHer shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye,And her lips drawn with terror at the cryOf the harsh people, and the rugged stonesBorne in their hands to break her flesh and bones;For the law stood that sinners such as shePerish by stoning, and this doom must be;So went the adult'ress to her death.High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breathBlew from the desert sands and parched the town.The crows gasped, and the kine went up and downWith lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowdPressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loudAbout the tank; and one dog by a well,Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell,Glaring upon the water out of reach,And praying succour in a silent speech,So piteous were its eyes.Which, when she saw,This woman from her foot her shoe did draw,Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping upThe long silk of her girdle, made a cupOf the heel's hollow, and thus let it sinkUntil it touched the cool black water's brink;So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draughtTo the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffedHer kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand,With such glad looks that all might understandHe held his life from her; then, at her feetHe followed close, all down the cruel street,Her one friend in that city.But the King,Riding within his litter, marked this thing,And how the woman, on her way to dieHad such compassion for the miseryOf that parched hound: "Take off her chain, and placeThe veil once more about the sinner's face,And lead her to her house in peace!" he said."The law is that the people stone thee deadFor that which thou hast wrought; but there is comeFawning around thy feet a witness dumb,Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beastTestifies for thee, sister! whose weak breastDeath could not make ungentle. I hold ruleIn Allah's stead, who is 'the Merciful,'And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free—I dare not show less pity unto thee."As we forgive—and more than we—Ya Barr! Good God, show clemency.
Hast seenThe record written of Salah-ud-Deen,The Sultan—how he met, upon a day,In his own city on the public way,A woman whom they led to die? The veilWas stripped from off her weeping face, and paleHer shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye,And her lips drawn with terror at the cryOf the harsh people, and the rugged stonesBorne in their hands to break her flesh and bones;For the law stood that sinners such as shePerish by stoning, and this doom must be;So went the adult'ress to her death.High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breathBlew from the desert sands and parched the town.The crows gasped, and the kine went up and downWith lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowdPressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loudAbout the tank; and one dog by a well,Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell,Glaring upon the water out of reach,And praying succour in a silent speech,So piteous were its eyes.Which, when she saw,This woman from her foot her shoe did draw,Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping upThe long silk of her girdle, made a cupOf the heel's hollow, and thus let it sinkUntil it touched the cool black water's brink;So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draughtTo the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffedHer kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand,With such glad looks that all might understandHe held his life from her; then, at her feetHe followed close, all down the cruel street,Her one friend in that city.But the King,Riding within his litter, marked this thing,And how the woman, on her way to dieHad such compassion for the miseryOf that parched hound: "Take off her chain, and placeThe veil once more about the sinner's face,And lead her to her house in peace!" he said."The law is that the people stone thee deadFor that which thou hast wrought; but there is comeFawning around thy feet a witness dumb,Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beastTestifies for thee, sister! whose weak breastDeath could not make ungentle. I hold ruleIn Allah's stead, who is 'the Merciful,'And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free—I dare not show less pity unto thee."
As we forgive—and more than we—Ya Barr! Good God, show clemency.
Sir Edwin Arnold.
The noon was shady, and soft airsSwept Ouse's silent tide,When 'scaped from literary caresI wandered on his side.My spaniel, prettiest of his race,And high in pedigree(Two nymphs adorned with every graceThat spaniel found for me)Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,Now starting into sight,Pursued the swallow o'er the meadsWith scarce a slower flight.It was the time that Ouse displayedHis lilies newly blown;Their beauties I intent surveyed,And one I wished my own.With cane extended far I soughtTo steer it close to land;But still the prize, though nearly caught,Escaped my eager hand.Beau marked my unsuccessful painsWith fixed, considerate face,And puzzling, set his puppy brainsTo comprehend the case.But with a chirrup clear and strongDispersing all his dream,I thence withdrew, and followed longThe windings of the stream.My ramble ended, I returned;Beau trotting far beforeThe floating wreath again discerned,And, plunging, left the shore.I saw him, with that lily cropped,Impatient swim to meetMy quick approach, and soon he droppedThe treasure at my feet.Charmed with the sight, "The world," I cried,"Shall hear of this thy deed;My dog shall mortify the prideOf man's superior breed:"But chief myself I will enjoinAwake at duty's call,To show a love as prompt as thineTo Him who gives me all."
The noon was shady, and soft airsSwept Ouse's silent tide,When 'scaped from literary caresI wandered on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,And high in pedigree(Two nymphs adorned with every graceThat spaniel found for me)
Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,Now starting into sight,Pursued the swallow o'er the meadsWith scarce a slower flight.
It was the time that Ouse displayedHis lilies newly blown;Their beauties I intent surveyed,And one I wished my own.
With cane extended far I soughtTo steer it close to land;But still the prize, though nearly caught,Escaped my eager hand.
Beau marked my unsuccessful painsWith fixed, considerate face,And puzzling, set his puppy brainsTo comprehend the case.
But with a chirrup clear and strongDispersing all his dream,I thence withdrew, and followed longThe windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I returned;Beau trotting far beforeThe floating wreath again discerned,And, plunging, left the shore.
I saw him, with that lily cropped,Impatient swim to meetMy quick approach, and soon he droppedThe treasure at my feet.
Charmed with the sight, "The world," I cried,"Shall hear of this thy deed;My dog shall mortify the prideOf man's superior breed:
"But chief myself I will enjoinAwake at duty's call,To show a love as prompt as thineTo Him who gives me all."
William Cowper.
A dog there was, Petronius by name—A cur of no degree, yet which the sameRejoiced him; because so worthless heThat in his worthlessness remarkablyHe shone, th' example de luxe of how a curMay be the very limit of a slurUpon the honored name of dog; a jokeHe was, a satire blasphemous; he brokeThe records all for sheer insulting "bunk;"No dog had ever breathed who was so punk!And yet that cur, Petronius by name,Enkindled in his master's heart a flameOf love, affection, reverence, so rareThat had he been an angel bright and fairThe homage paid him had been less; you seeThe red-haired boy who owned him had a bee—There was no other dog on land or sea.Petronius was solid; he just wasThe dog, the only dog on earth, because—Because a red-haired boy who likes his dog,He likes that dog so much no other dogExists—and that, my friends, is loyalty,Than which there is no grander ecstasy.
A dog there was, Petronius by name—A cur of no degree, yet which the sameRejoiced him; because so worthless heThat in his worthlessness remarkablyHe shone, th' example de luxe of how a curMay be the very limit of a slurUpon the honored name of dog; a jokeHe was, a satire blasphemous; he brokeThe records all for sheer insulting "bunk;"No dog had ever breathed who was so punk!
And yet that cur, Petronius by name,Enkindled in his master's heart a flameOf love, affection, reverence, so rareThat had he been an angel bright and fairThe homage paid him had been less; you seeThe red-haired boy who owned him had a bee—There was no other dog on land or sea.Petronius was solid; he just wasThe dog, the only dog on earth, because—Because a red-haired boy who likes his dog,He likes that dog so much no other dogExists—and that, my friends, is loyalty,Than which there is no grander ecstasy.
Frederic P. Ladd.
Here is a friend who proves his worthWithout conceit or pride of birth.Let want or plenty play the host,He gets the least and gives the most—He's just a dog.He's ever faithful, kind and true;He never questions what I do,And whether I may go or stay,He's always ready to obey'Cause he's a dog.Such meager fare his want supplies!A hand caress, and from his eyesThere beams more love than mortals know;Meanwhile he wags his tail to showThat he's my dog.He watches me all through the day,And nothing coaxes him away;And through the night-long slumber deepHe guards the home wherein I sleep—And he's a dog.I wonder if I'd be contentTo follow where my master went,And where he rode—as needs he must—Would I run after in his dustLike other dogs.How strange if things were quite reversed—The man debased, the dog put first.I often wonder how 'twould beWere he the master 'stead of me—And I the dog.A world of deep devotion liesBehind the windows of his eyes;Yet love is only half his charm—He'd die to shield my life from harm.Yet he's a dog.If dogs were fashioned out of menWhat breed of dog would I have been?And would I e'er deserve caress,Or be extolled for faithfulnessLike my dog here?As mortals go, how few possessOf courage, trust, and faithfulnessEnough from which to undertake,Without some borrowed traits, to makeA decent dog!
Here is a friend who proves his worthWithout conceit or pride of birth.Let want or plenty play the host,He gets the least and gives the most—He's just a dog.
He's ever faithful, kind and true;He never questions what I do,And whether I may go or stay,He's always ready to obey'Cause he's a dog.
Such meager fare his want supplies!A hand caress, and from his eyesThere beams more love than mortals know;Meanwhile he wags his tail to showThat he's my dog.
He watches me all through the day,And nothing coaxes him away;And through the night-long slumber deepHe guards the home wherein I sleep—And he's a dog.
I wonder if I'd be contentTo follow where my master went,And where he rode—as needs he must—Would I run after in his dustLike other dogs.
How strange if things were quite reversed—The man debased, the dog put first.I often wonder how 'twould beWere he the master 'stead of me—And I the dog.
A world of deep devotion liesBehind the windows of his eyes;Yet love is only half his charm—He'd die to shield my life from harm.Yet he's a dog.
If dogs were fashioned out of menWhat breed of dog would I have been?And would I e'er deserve caress,Or be extolled for faithfulnessLike my dog here?
As mortals go, how few possessOf courage, trust, and faithfulnessEnough from which to undertake,Without some borrowed traits, to makeA decent dog!
Joseph M. Anderson.
One evening Jesus lingered in the marketplace,Teaching the people parables of truth and grace,When in the square remote a crowd was seen to rise,And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries.The Master and his meek disciples went to seeWhat cause for this commotion and disgust could be,And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid—Revolting sight! at which each face its hate betrayed.One held his nose, one shut his eyes, one turned away,And all among themselves began to say:"Detested creature! he pollutes the earth and air!""His eyes are blear!" "His ears are foul!" "His ribs are bare!""In his torn hide there's not a decent shoestring left,No doubt the execrable cur was hung for theft."Then Jesus spake, and dropped on him the saving wreath:"Even pearls are dark before the whiteness of his teeth."The pelting crowd grew silent and ashamed, like oneRebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own;And one exclaimed: "No creature so accursed can beBut some good thing in him a loving eye will see."
One evening Jesus lingered in the marketplace,Teaching the people parables of truth and grace,When in the square remote a crowd was seen to rise,And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries.The Master and his meek disciples went to seeWhat cause for this commotion and disgust could be,And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid—Revolting sight! at which each face its hate betrayed.
One held his nose, one shut his eyes, one turned away,And all among themselves began to say:"Detested creature! he pollutes the earth and air!""His eyes are blear!" "His ears are foul!" "His ribs are bare!""In his torn hide there's not a decent shoestring left,No doubt the execrable cur was hung for theft."Then Jesus spake, and dropped on him the saving wreath:"Even pearls are dark before the whiteness of his teeth."
The pelting crowd grew silent and ashamed, like oneRebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own;And one exclaimed: "No creature so accursed can beBut some good thing in him a loving eye will see."
William Rounseville Alger.
My dear, dumb friend, low-lying there,A willing vassal at my feet,Glad partner of my home and fare,My shadow in the street,I look into your great, brown eyes,Where love and loyal homage shine,And wonder where the difference liesBetween your soul and mine.For all of good that I have foundWithin myself, or human kind,Hath royally informed and crownedYour gentle heart and mind.I scan the whole broad earth aroundFor that one heart which, leal and true,Bears friendship without end or bound,And find the prize in you.I trust you as I trust the stars;Nor cruel loss, nor scoff, nor pride,Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars,Can move you from my side.As patient under injuryAs any Christian saint of old,As gentle as a lamb with me,But with your brothers bold.More playful than a frolic boy,More watchful than a sentinel,By day and night your constant joyTo guard and please me well.I clasp your head upon my breast,The while you whine, and lick my hand;And thus our friendship is confessed,And thus we understand.Ah, Blanco! Did I worship GodAs truly as you worship me,Or follow where my Master trodWith your humility,Did I sit fondly at His feet,As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,And watch Him with a love as sweet,My life would grow divine.
My dear, dumb friend, low-lying there,A willing vassal at my feet,Glad partner of my home and fare,My shadow in the street,
I look into your great, brown eyes,Where love and loyal homage shine,And wonder where the difference liesBetween your soul and mine.
For all of good that I have foundWithin myself, or human kind,Hath royally informed and crownedYour gentle heart and mind.
I scan the whole broad earth aroundFor that one heart which, leal and true,Bears friendship without end or bound,And find the prize in you.
I trust you as I trust the stars;Nor cruel loss, nor scoff, nor pride,Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars,Can move you from my side.
As patient under injuryAs any Christian saint of old,As gentle as a lamb with me,But with your brothers bold.
More playful than a frolic boy,More watchful than a sentinel,By day and night your constant joyTo guard and please me well.
I clasp your head upon my breast,The while you whine, and lick my hand;And thus our friendship is confessed,And thus we understand.
Ah, Blanco! Did I worship GodAs truly as you worship me,Or follow where my Master trodWith your humility,
Did I sit fondly at His feet,As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,And watch Him with a love as sweet,My life would grow divine.
J.G. Holland.
When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hutHe'd naught but a hound to his name;And whither he went thrailed the ould friend,Dog-faithful and iver the same!And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time,He'd eat thro' a wall or a door,He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther,To be wid his master wanst more!And the two, faith, would share their last bannock;They'd share their last collop and bone;And deep in the starin' ould sad eyesLean Shamus would stare wid his own!And loose hung the flanks av the ould houndWhen Shamus lay sick on his bed—Ay, waitin' and watchin' wid sad eyesHe'd eat not av bone or av bread!But Shamus be springtime grew betther,And a trouble came into his mind;And he'd take himself off to the village,And be leavin' his hound behind!And deep was the whine of the ould dogWid a love that was deeper than life—But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whisperedThat Shamus was takin' a wife!A wife and a fine house he got him;In a shay he went drivin' around;And I met him be chance at the cross-roads,And I says to him, "How's the ould hound?""My wife never took to that ould dog,"Says he, wid a shrug av his slats,"So we've got us a new dog from Galway,And och, he's the divil for rats!"
When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hutHe'd naught but a hound to his name;And whither he went thrailed the ould friend,Dog-faithful and iver the same!
And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time,He'd eat thro' a wall or a door,He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther,To be wid his master wanst more!
And the two, faith, would share their last bannock;They'd share their last collop and bone;And deep in the starin' ould sad eyesLean Shamus would stare wid his own!
And loose hung the flanks av the ould houndWhen Shamus lay sick on his bed—Ay, waitin' and watchin' wid sad eyesHe'd eat not av bone or av bread!
But Shamus be springtime grew betther,And a trouble came into his mind;And he'd take himself off to the village,And be leavin' his hound behind!
And deep was the whine of the ould dogWid a love that was deeper than life—But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whisperedThat Shamus was takin' a wife!
A wife and a fine house he got him;In a shay he went drivin' around;And I met him be chance at the cross-roads,And I says to him, "How's the ould hound?"
"My wife never took to that ould dog,"Says he, wid a shrug av his slats,"So we've got us a new dog from Galway,And och, he's the divil for rats!"
Arthur Stringer.
There watched a cur before the miser's gate—A very cur, whom all men seemed to hate;Gaunt, shaggy, savage, with an eye that shoneLike a live coal; and he possessed but one.His bark was wild and eager, and becameThat meager body and that eye of flame;His master prized him much, and Fang his name,His master fed him largely, but not thatNor aught of kindness made the snarler fat.Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay—He barked, and snarled, and growled it all away.His ribs were seen extended like a rack,And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back.Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,Now his sore body made his temper sore.Such was the friend of him who could not find,Nor make him one, 'mong creatures of his kind.Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old,From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted theyIn earlier times—each dog will have his day.The notes of Fang were to his master knownAnd dear—they bore some likeness to his own;For both conveyed, to the experienced ear,"I snarl and bite because I hate and fear."None passed ungreeted by the master's door,Fang railed at all, but chiefly at the poor;And when the nights were stormy, cold and dark,The act of Fang was a perpetual bark.But though the master loved the growl of FangThere were who vowed the ugly cur to hang,Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,As strongly vowed his servant to defend.In one dark night, and such as Fang beforeWas ever known its tempests to outroar,To his protector's wonder now expressed,No angry notes—his anger was at rest.The wond'ring master sought the silent yard,Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred,Nor more returned to that forsaken bed—But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.Fang and his master side by side were laidIn grim repose—their debt to nature paid.The master's hand upon the cur's cold chestWas now reclined, and had before been pressed,As if he sought how deep and wide the woundThat laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;And when he found it was the sleep of deathA sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath.Close to his trusty servant he was found,As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.
There watched a cur before the miser's gate—A very cur, whom all men seemed to hate;Gaunt, shaggy, savage, with an eye that shoneLike a live coal; and he possessed but one.His bark was wild and eager, and becameThat meager body and that eye of flame;His master prized him much, and Fang his name,His master fed him largely, but not thatNor aught of kindness made the snarler fat.Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay—He barked, and snarled, and growled it all away.His ribs were seen extended like a rack,And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back.Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,Now his sore body made his temper sore.Such was the friend of him who could not find,Nor make him one, 'mong creatures of his kind.Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old,From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted theyIn earlier times—each dog will have his day.
The notes of Fang were to his master knownAnd dear—they bore some likeness to his own;For both conveyed, to the experienced ear,"I snarl and bite because I hate and fear."None passed ungreeted by the master's door,Fang railed at all, but chiefly at the poor;And when the nights were stormy, cold and dark,The act of Fang was a perpetual bark.But though the master loved the growl of FangThere were who vowed the ugly cur to hang,Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,As strongly vowed his servant to defend.
In one dark night, and such as Fang beforeWas ever known its tempests to outroar,To his protector's wonder now expressed,No angry notes—his anger was at rest.The wond'ring master sought the silent yard,Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred,Nor more returned to that forsaken bed—But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.Fang and his master side by side were laidIn grim repose—their debt to nature paid.The master's hand upon the cur's cold chestWas now reclined, and had before been pressed,As if he sought how deep and wide the woundThat laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;And when he found it was the sleep of deathA sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath.Close to his trusty servant he was found,As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.
George Crabbe.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was as happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart)"Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away,And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day,And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken and blind?Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can ne'er more return with my poor dog Tray.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was as happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart)"Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away,And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day,And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken and blind?Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can ne'er more return with my poor dog Tray.
Thomas Campbell.
The world had all gone wrong that dayAnd tired and in despair,Discouraged with the ways of life,I sank into my chair.A soft caress fell on my cheek,My hands were thrust apart.And two big sympathizing eyesGazed down into my heart.I had a friend; what cared I nowFor fifty worlds? I knewOne heart was anxious when I grieved—My dog's heart, loyal, true."God bless him," breathed I soft and low,And hugged him close and tight.One lingering lick upon my earAnd we were happy—quite.
The world had all gone wrong that dayAnd tired and in despair,Discouraged with the ways of life,I sank into my chair.
A soft caress fell on my cheek,My hands were thrust apart.And two big sympathizing eyesGazed down into my heart.
I had a friend; what cared I nowFor fifty worlds? I knewOne heart was anxious when I grieved—My dog's heart, loyal, true.
"God bless him," breathed I soft and low,And hugged him close and tight.One lingering lick upon my earAnd we were happy—quite.
Anonymous.
Little white dog with the meek brown eyes,Tell me the boon that most you prize.Would a juicy bone meet your heart's desire?Or a cozy rug by a blazing fire?Or a sudden race with a truant cat?Or a gentle word? Or a friendly pat?Is the worn-out ball you have always nearThe dearest of all the things held dear?Or is the home you left behindThe dream of bliss to your doggish mind?But the little white dog just shook his headAs if "None of these are best," he said.A boy's clear whistle came from the street;There's a wag of the tail and a twinkle of feet,And the little white dog did not even say,"Excuse me, ma'am," as he scampered away;But I'm sure as can be his greatest joyIs just to trot behind that boy.
Little white dog with the meek brown eyes,Tell me the boon that most you prize.Would a juicy bone meet your heart's desire?Or a cozy rug by a blazing fire?Or a sudden race with a truant cat?Or a gentle word? Or a friendly pat?Is the worn-out ball you have always nearThe dearest of all the things held dear?Or is the home you left behindThe dream of bliss to your doggish mind?But the little white dog just shook his headAs if "None of these are best," he said.
A boy's clear whistle came from the street;There's a wag of the tail and a twinkle of feet,And the little white dog did not even say,"Excuse me, ma'am," as he scampered away;But I'm sure as can be his greatest joyIs just to trot behind that boy.
May Ellis Nichols.
Behold this creature's form and state;Which nature therefore did create,That to the world might be exprestWhat mien there can be in a beast;And that we in this shape may findA lion of another kind.For this heroic beast does seemIn majesty to rival him,And yet vouchsafes to man to showBoth service and submission, too.From whence we this distinction have,That beast is fierce, but this is brave.This dog hath so himself subduedThat hunger cannot make him rude,And his behavior does confessTrue courage dwells with gentleness.With sternest wolves he dares engage,And acts on them successful rage.Yet too much courtesy may chanceTo put him out of countenance.When in his opposer's bloodFortune hath made his virtue good,This creature from an act so braveGrows not more sullen, but more brave.Man's guard he would be, not his sport,Believing he hath ventured for't;But yet no blood, or shed or spent,Can ever make him insolent.Few men of him to do great things have learned,And when they're done to be so unconcerned.
Behold this creature's form and state;Which nature therefore did create,That to the world might be exprestWhat mien there can be in a beast;And that we in this shape may findA lion of another kind.For this heroic beast does seemIn majesty to rival him,And yet vouchsafes to man to showBoth service and submission, too.From whence we this distinction have,That beast is fierce, but this is brave.This dog hath so himself subduedThat hunger cannot make him rude,And his behavior does confessTrue courage dwells with gentleness.With sternest wolves he dares engage,And acts on them successful rage.Yet too much courtesy may chanceTo put him out of countenance.When in his opposer's bloodFortune hath made his virtue good,This creature from an act so braveGrows not more sullen, but more brave.Man's guard he would be, not his sport,Believing he hath ventured for't;But yet no blood, or shed or spent,Can ever make him insolent.Few men of him to do great things have learned,And when they're done to be so unconcerned.
Katherine Phillips.
We are two travellers, Roger and I.Roger's my dog.—Come here, you scamp!Jump for the gentleman,—mind your eye!Over the table,—look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,And slept out-doors when nights were cold,And ate and drank—and starved—together.We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!The paw he holds up there's been frozen),Plenty of catgut for my fiddle(This out-door business is bad for strings),Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,And Roger and I set up for kings!No, thank ye, Sir,—I never drink;Roger and I are exceedingly moral,—Aren't we, Roger?—See him wink!—Well, something hot, then,—we won't quarrel.He's thirsty, too,—see him nod his head?What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!He understands every word that's said,—And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,I've been so sadly given to grog,I wonder I've not lost the respect(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.But he sticks by, through thick and thin;And this old coat with its empty pockets,And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.There isn't another creature livingWould do it, and prove, through every disaster,So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,To such a miserable, thankless master!No, Sir!—see him wag his tail and grin!By George! it makes my old eyes water!That is, there's something in this ginThat chokes a fellow. But no matter!We'll have some music, if you're willing,And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)Shall march a little—Start, you villain!Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer!'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle!(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold yourCap while the gentlemen give a trifle,To aid a poor old patriot soldier!March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakesWhen he stands up to hear his sentence.Now tell us how many drams it takesTo honor a jolly new acquaintance.Five yelps,—that's five; he's mighty knowing!The night's before us, fill the glasses!—Quick, Sir! I'm ill,—my brain is going!—Some brandy,—thank you,—there!—it passes!Why not reform? That's easily said;But I've gone through such wretched treatment,Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,And scarce remembering what meat meant,That my poor stomach's past reform;And there are times when, mad with thinking,I'd sell out heaven for something warmTo prop a horrible inward sinking.Is there a way to forget to think?At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink,—The same old story; you know how it ends.If you could have seen these classic features,—You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not thenSuch a burning libel on God's creatures:I was one of your handsome men!If you had seenher, so fair and young,Whose head was happy on this breast!If you could have heard the songs I sungWhen the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessedThat ever I, Sir, should be strayingFrom door to door, with fiddle and dog,Ragged and penniless, and playingTo you to-night for a glass of grog!She's married since,—a parson's wife:'Twas better for her that we should part,—Better the soberest, prosiest lifeThan a blasted home and a broken heart.I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spentOn the dusty road: a carriage stopped:But little she dreamed, as on she went,Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry:It makes me wild to think of the change!What do you care for a beggar's story?Is it amusing? You find it strange?I had a mother so proud of me!'Twas well she died before.—Do you knowIf the happy spirits in heaven can seeThe ruin and wretchedness here below?Another glass, and strong, to deadenThis pain; then Roger and I will start.I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,Aching thing in place of a heart?He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,No doubt remembering things that were,—A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,And himself a sober, respectable cur.I'm better now; that glass was warming.—You rascal! limber your lazy feet!We must be fiddling and performingFor supper and bed, or starve in the street.—Not a very gay life to lead, you think?But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink:—The sooner, the better for Roger and me!
We are two travellers, Roger and I.Roger's my dog.—Come here, you scamp!Jump for the gentleman,—mind your eye!Over the table,—look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,And slept out-doors when nights were cold,And ate and drank—and starved—together.
We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!The paw he holds up there's been frozen),Plenty of catgut for my fiddle(This out-door business is bad for strings),Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,And Roger and I set up for kings!
No, thank ye, Sir,—I never drink;Roger and I are exceedingly moral,—Aren't we, Roger?—See him wink!—Well, something hot, then,—we won't quarrel.He's thirsty, too,—see him nod his head?What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!He understands every word that's said,—And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.
The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,I've been so sadly given to grog,I wonder I've not lost the respect(Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.But he sticks by, through thick and thin;And this old coat with its empty pockets,And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.
There isn't another creature livingWould do it, and prove, through every disaster,So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,To such a miserable, thankless master!No, Sir!—see him wag his tail and grin!By George! it makes my old eyes water!That is, there's something in this ginThat chokes a fellow. But no matter!
We'll have some music, if you're willing,And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)Shall march a little—Start, you villain!Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer!'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle!(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold yourCap while the gentlemen give a trifle,To aid a poor old patriot soldier!
March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakesWhen he stands up to hear his sentence.Now tell us how many drams it takesTo honor a jolly new acquaintance.Five yelps,—that's five; he's mighty knowing!The night's before us, fill the glasses!—Quick, Sir! I'm ill,—my brain is going!—Some brandy,—thank you,—there!—it passes!
Why not reform? That's easily said;But I've gone through such wretched treatment,Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,And scarce remembering what meat meant,That my poor stomach's past reform;And there are times when, mad with thinking,I'd sell out heaven for something warmTo prop a horrible inward sinking.
Is there a way to forget to think?At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,A dear girl's love,—but I took to drink,—The same old story; you know how it ends.If you could have seen these classic features,—You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not thenSuch a burning libel on God's creatures:I was one of your handsome men!
If you had seenher, so fair and young,Whose head was happy on this breast!If you could have heard the songs I sungWhen the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessedThat ever I, Sir, should be strayingFrom door to door, with fiddle and dog,Ragged and penniless, and playingTo you to-night for a glass of grog!
She's married since,—a parson's wife:'Twas better for her that we should part,—Better the soberest, prosiest lifeThan a blasted home and a broken heart.I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spentOn the dusty road: a carriage stopped:But little she dreamed, as on she went,Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry:It makes me wild to think of the change!What do you care for a beggar's story?Is it amusing? You find it strange?I had a mother so proud of me!'Twas well she died before.—Do you knowIf the happy spirits in heaven can seeThe ruin and wretchedness here below?
Another glass, and strong, to deadenThis pain; then Roger and I will start.I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,Aching thing in place of a heart?He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,No doubt remembering things that were,—A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now; that glass was warming.—You rascal! limber your lazy feet!We must be fiddling and performingFor supper and bed, or starve in the street.—Not a very gay life to lead, you think?But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink:—The sooner, the better for Roger and me!
J.T. Trowbridge.