Traveler.Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog.Shepherd.Be not affrighted, madame. Poor PierrotWill do no harm. I know his voice is gruff,But then, his heart is good.Traveler.Well, call him, then.I do not like his looks. He's growling now.Shepherd.Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot,He is as good a Christian as myselfAnd does not like a stick.Traveler.Such a fierce look!And such great teeth!Shepherd. Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear,Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me?Traveler.Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant.Shepherd.Do you seeOn that high ledge a cross of wood that standsAgainst the sky?Traveler.Just where the cliff goes downA hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rockTo where the river foams along its bed?I've often wondered who was brave to plantA cross on such an edge.Shepherd.Myself, madame,That the good God might know I gave him thanks.One night, it was November, black and thick,The fog came down, when as I reached my houseMarie came running out; our little one,Our four year Louis, so she cried, was lost.I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy,"And off he went. Marie ran crying loudTo call the neighbors. They and I, we searchedAll that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain;Whistled and called, and listened for his voice;He always came or barked at my first word,But now, he answered not. When day at lastBroke, and the gray fog lifted, there I sawOn that high ledge, against the dawning light.My little one asleep, sitting so nearThat edge that as I looked his red baretteFell from his nodding head down the abyss.And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth,His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown,Holding the child in safety. With wild boundsSwift as the gray wolf's own I climbed the steep,And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail,And looked at me, so utterly distressed,With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak,"But never loosed his hold till my dear rogueWas safe within my arms.Ah, ha, Pierrot,Madame forgives your barking and your teeth;I knew she would.Traveler.Come here, Pierrot, good dog,Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true,Come, come, be friends with me.
Traveler.Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog.Shepherd.Be not affrighted, madame. Poor PierrotWill do no harm. I know his voice is gruff,But then, his heart is good.Traveler.Well, call him, then.I do not like his looks. He's growling now.Shepherd.Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot,He is as good a Christian as myselfAnd does not like a stick.Traveler.Such a fierce look!And such great teeth!Shepherd. Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear,Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me?Traveler.Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant.Shepherd.Do you seeOn that high ledge a cross of wood that standsAgainst the sky?Traveler.Just where the cliff goes downA hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rockTo where the river foams along its bed?I've often wondered who was brave to plantA cross on such an edge.Shepherd.Myself, madame,That the good God might know I gave him thanks.One night, it was November, black and thick,The fog came down, when as I reached my houseMarie came running out; our little one,Our four year Louis, so she cried, was lost.I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy,"And off he went. Marie ran crying loudTo call the neighbors. They and I, we searchedAll that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain;Whistled and called, and listened for his voice;He always came or barked at my first word,But now, he answered not. When day at lastBroke, and the gray fog lifted, there I sawOn that high ledge, against the dawning light.My little one asleep, sitting so nearThat edge that as I looked his red baretteFell from his nodding head down the abyss.And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth,His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown,Holding the child in safety. With wild boundsSwift as the gray wolf's own I climbed the steep,And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail,And looked at me, so utterly distressed,With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak,"But never loosed his hold till my dear rogueWas safe within my arms.Ah, ha, Pierrot,Madame forgives your barking and your teeth;I knew she would.Traveler.Come here, Pierrot, good dog,Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true,Come, come, be friends with me.
Ellen Murray.
"Come, wife," said good old farmer Gray,"Put on your things, 'tis market day,And we'll be off to the nearest town,There and back ere the sun goes down.Spot? No, we'll leave old Spot behind,"But Spot he barked and Spot he whined,And soon made up his doggish mindTo follow under the wagon.Away they went at a good round paceAnd joy came into the farmer's face,"Poor Spot," said he, "did want to come,But I'm awful glad he's left at home—He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot,And keep the cattle out of the lot.""I'm not so sure of that," thought Spot,The dog under the wagon.The farmer all his produce soldAnd got his pay in yellow gold:Home through the lonely forest. Hark!A robber springs from behind a tree;"Your money or else your life," says he;The moon was up, but he didn't seeThe dog under the wagon.Spot ne'er barked and Spot ne'er whinedBut quickly caught the thief behind;He dragged him down in the mire and dirt,And tore his coat and tore his shirt,Then held him fast on the miry ground;The robber uttered not a sound,While his hands and feet the farmer bound,And tumbled him into the wagon.So Spot he saved the farmer's life,The farmer's money, the farmer's wife,And now a hero grand and gay,A silver collar he wears today;Among his friends, among his foes—And everywhere his master goes—He follows on his horny toes,The dog under the wagon.
"Come, wife," said good old farmer Gray,"Put on your things, 'tis market day,And we'll be off to the nearest town,There and back ere the sun goes down.Spot? No, we'll leave old Spot behind,"But Spot he barked and Spot he whined,And soon made up his doggish mindTo follow under the wagon.
Away they went at a good round paceAnd joy came into the farmer's face,"Poor Spot," said he, "did want to come,But I'm awful glad he's left at home—He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot,And keep the cattle out of the lot.""I'm not so sure of that," thought Spot,The dog under the wagon.
The farmer all his produce soldAnd got his pay in yellow gold:Home through the lonely forest. Hark!A robber springs from behind a tree;"Your money or else your life," says he;The moon was up, but he didn't seeThe dog under the wagon.
Spot ne'er barked and Spot ne'er whinedBut quickly caught the thief behind;He dragged him down in the mire and dirt,And tore his coat and tore his shirt,Then held him fast on the miry ground;The robber uttered not a sound,While his hands and feet the farmer bound,And tumbled him into the wagon.
So Spot he saved the farmer's life,The farmer's money, the farmer's wife,And now a hero grand and gay,A silver collar he wears today;Among his friends, among his foes—And everywhere his master goes—He follows on his horny toes,The dog under the wagon.
Anonymous.
A RUSTIC IDYL BY A RUSTIC IDLER
But yestere'en I loved thee whole,Oh, fashionable and baggy trouser!And now I loathe and hate the holeIn thee, I do, I trow, sir.I sallied out to see my Sal,Across yon round hill's brow, sir;I didn't know she, charming gal,Had a dog,—a trouser-browser.I'd sauntered in quite trim and spruce,When on a sudden, oh, my trouser,I felt thee seized where thou'rt most loose,—I tarried there with Towser.I on the fence, he down below,And thou the copula, my trouser,I thought he never would let go,—This gentle Towser.They say that fashion cuts thee loose,But not so fashioned is Sal's Towser;Thou gavest away at last, no useTo tarry, tearèd trouser.Miss Sarah, she is wondrous sweet,And I'd have once loved to espouse her,But my calling trouser has no seat,—I left it there with Towser.So all unseated is my suit;I must eschew Miss Sarah now, sir;He's chewed my trouser; 'twouldn't suitMe to meet Towser.
But yestere'en I loved thee whole,Oh, fashionable and baggy trouser!And now I loathe and hate the holeIn thee, I do, I trow, sir.
I sallied out to see my Sal,Across yon round hill's brow, sir;I didn't know she, charming gal,Had a dog,—a trouser-browser.
I'd sauntered in quite trim and spruce,When on a sudden, oh, my trouser,I felt thee seized where thou'rt most loose,—I tarried there with Towser.
I on the fence, he down below,And thou the copula, my trouser,I thought he never would let go,—This gentle Towser.
They say that fashion cuts thee loose,But not so fashioned is Sal's Towser;Thou gavest away at last, no useTo tarry, tearèd trouser.
Miss Sarah, she is wondrous sweet,And I'd have once loved to espouse her,But my calling trouser has no seat,—I left it there with Towser.
So all unseated is my suit;I must eschew Miss Sarah now, sir;He's chewed my trouser; 'twouldn't suitMe to meet Towser.
Anonymous.
'Twas a Sunday morning in early May,A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,And all the village, old and young,Had trooped to church when the church bell rung.The windows were open, and breezes sweetFluttered the hymn books from seat to seat.Even the birds in the pale-leaved birchSang as softly as if in church!Right in the midst of the minister's prayerThere came a knock at the door. "Who's there,I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought,As his careful ear the tapping caught.Rap-rap, rap-rap—a louder sound,The boys on the back seats turned around.What could it mean? for never beforeHad any one knocked at the old church door.Again the tapping, and now so loud,The minister paused (though his head was bowed).Rappety-rap! This will never do,The girls are peeping, and laughing too!So the sexton tripped o'er the creaking floor,Lifted the latch and opened the door.In there trotted a big black dog,As big as a bear! With a solemn jogRight up the centre aisle he pattered;People might stare, it little mattered.Straight he went to a little maid,Who blushed and hid, as though afraid,And there sat down, as if to say,"I'm sorry that I was late today,But better late than never, you know;Beside, I waited an hour or so,And couldn't get them to open the doorTill I wagged my tail and bumped the floor.Now little mistress, I'm going to stay,And hear what the minister has to say."The poor little girl hid her face and cried!But the big dog nestled close to her side,And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,Wondering what the matter could be!The dog being large (and the sexton small),He sat through the sermon, and heard it all,As solemn and wise as any one there,With a very dignified, scholarly air!And instead of scolding, the minister said,As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head,After the service, "I never knewTwo better list'ners than Rover and you!"
'Twas a Sunday morning in early May,A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,And all the village, old and young,Had trooped to church when the church bell rung.The windows were open, and breezes sweetFluttered the hymn books from seat to seat.Even the birds in the pale-leaved birchSang as softly as if in church!
Right in the midst of the minister's prayerThere came a knock at the door. "Who's there,I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought,As his careful ear the tapping caught.Rap-rap, rap-rap—a louder sound,The boys on the back seats turned around.What could it mean? for never beforeHad any one knocked at the old church door.
Again the tapping, and now so loud,The minister paused (though his head was bowed).Rappety-rap! This will never do,The girls are peeping, and laughing too!So the sexton tripped o'er the creaking floor,Lifted the latch and opened the door.
In there trotted a big black dog,As big as a bear! With a solemn jogRight up the centre aisle he pattered;People might stare, it little mattered.Straight he went to a little maid,Who blushed and hid, as though afraid,And there sat down, as if to say,"I'm sorry that I was late today,But better late than never, you know;Beside, I waited an hour or so,And couldn't get them to open the doorTill I wagged my tail and bumped the floor.Now little mistress, I'm going to stay,And hear what the minister has to say."
The poor little girl hid her face and cried!But the big dog nestled close to her side,And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,Wondering what the matter could be!The dog being large (and the sexton small),He sat through the sermon, and heard it all,As solemn and wise as any one there,With a very dignified, scholarly air!And instead of scolding, the minister said,As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head,After the service, "I never knewTwo better list'ners than Rover and you!"
James Buckham.
Oh, Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through;Let it go with me into Heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.
Oh, Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through;Let it go with me into Heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.
Dear Billy, of imperious barkWhen stranger's step fell on thy ear;Who oft inspired with wholesome fearA prowling boy in shadows dark:But oftener hailed with joyous crySome friendly face returning home,Or, wild with glee, the fields to roam—Now still and cold thou here dost lie!Frail vines that from the garden wallCrept blooming o'er thy lowly bed,Elm branches drooping overhead,And dying leaves that wavering fall,In other forms of life enrolledShall live in ages yet to be;And shall a mind from body freeLie buried dark beneath the mold?He loved us all, and none forgot,He guessed whate'er was done or told,Dreamed of adventures free and bold—For him is there no future lot?If love is life and thought is mind,And all shall last beyond the years,And memory live in other spheres,My steadfast friend may I not find?
Dear Billy, of imperious barkWhen stranger's step fell on thy ear;Who oft inspired with wholesome fearA prowling boy in shadows dark:
But oftener hailed with joyous crySome friendly face returning home,Or, wild with glee, the fields to roam—Now still and cold thou here dost lie!
Frail vines that from the garden wallCrept blooming o'er thy lowly bed,Elm branches drooping overhead,And dying leaves that wavering fall,
In other forms of life enrolledShall live in ages yet to be;And shall a mind from body freeLie buried dark beneath the mold?
He loved us all, and none forgot,He guessed whate'er was done or told,Dreamed of adventures free and bold—For him is there no future lot?
If love is life and thought is mind,And all shall last beyond the years,And memory live in other spheres,My steadfast friend may I not find?
Lorenzo Sears.
When I call my terrier by his name,Or join him at evening play;His eyes will flash with a human flameAnd he looks what he cannot say;For the bond between us twoIs that between me and you!Should a seraph sing in my ear tonight,Or a sweet voiced angel come.Would poor speech prove my soul's delight,Or ecstasy drive me dumb?For the link 'twixt them and meIs long as Eternity.Wide leagues our sentient forms divideThe loftier from the mean;But soul to soul all planes are tiedWhen sympathy lies between;And who shall say that the bruteIs soulless, though mean and mute?
When I call my terrier by his name,Or join him at evening play;His eyes will flash with a human flameAnd he looks what he cannot say;For the bond between us twoIs that between me and you!
Should a seraph sing in my ear tonight,Or a sweet voiced angel come.Would poor speech prove my soul's delight,Or ecstasy drive me dumb?For the link 'twixt them and meIs long as Eternity.
Wide leagues our sentient forms divideThe loftier from the mean;But soul to soul all planes are tiedWhen sympathy lies between;And who shall say that the bruteIs soulless, though mean and mute?
George H. Nettle.
On every side I see your trace;Your water-trough's scarce dry;Your empty collar in its placeProvokes the heavy sigh.And you were here two days ago.There's little changed, I see.The sun is just as bright, but oh!The difference to me!The very print of your small padIs on the whitened stone.Where, by what ways, or sad or glad,Do you fare on alone?Oh, little face, so merry-wise,Brisk feet and eager bark!The house is lonesome for your eyes,My spirit somewhat dark.Now, small, invinc'ble friend, your loveIs done, your fighting o'er,No more your wandering feet will roveBeyond your own house-door.The cats that feared, their hearts are high,The dogs that loved will gazeLong, long ere you come passing byWith all your jovial ways.Th' accursed archer who has sentHis arrow all too true,Would that his evil days were spentEre he took aim at you!Your honest face, your winsome waysHaunt me, dear little ghost,And everywhere I see your trace,Oh, well-beloved and lost!
On every side I see your trace;Your water-trough's scarce dry;Your empty collar in its placeProvokes the heavy sigh.
And you were here two days ago.There's little changed, I see.The sun is just as bright, but oh!The difference to me!
The very print of your small padIs on the whitened stone.Where, by what ways, or sad or glad,Do you fare on alone?
Oh, little face, so merry-wise,Brisk feet and eager bark!The house is lonesome for your eyes,My spirit somewhat dark.
Now, small, invinc'ble friend, your loveIs done, your fighting o'er,No more your wandering feet will roveBeyond your own house-door.
The cats that feared, their hearts are high,The dogs that loved will gazeLong, long ere you come passing byWith all your jovial ways.
Th' accursed archer who has sentHis arrow all too true,Would that his evil days were spentEre he took aim at you!
Your honest face, your winsome waysHaunt me, dear little ghost,And everywhere I see your trace,Oh, well-beloved and lost!
Anonymous.
And they have drowned thee then at last! poor Phillis!The burden of old age was heavy on thee,And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eyeWas dim, and watched no more with eager joyThe wonted call that on thy dull sense sunkWith fruitless repetition, the warm sunMight still have cheered thy slumber; thou didst loveTo lick the hand that fed thee, and though pastYouth's active season, even life itselfWas comfort. Poor old friend! How earnestlyWould I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst beenStill the companion of my childish sports:And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,From many a day-dream has thy short quick barkRecalled my wandering soul. I have beguiledOften the melancholy hours at school,Soured by some little tyrant, with the thoughtOf distant home, and I remembered thenThy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,Returning at the pleasant holidays,I felt from thy dumb welcome. PensivelySometimes have I remarked the slow decay,Feeling myself changed, too, and musing much,On many a sad vicissitude of life!Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst lastThy master's parting footsteps to the gateWhich closed forever on him, thou didst loseThy truest friend, and none was left to pleadFor the old age of brute fidelity!But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;And He who gave thee being did not frameThe mystery of life to be the sportOf merciless man! There is another worldFor all that live and move—a better one!Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confineInfinite goodness to the little boundsOf their own charity, may envy thee!
And they have drowned thee then at last! poor Phillis!The burden of old age was heavy on thee,And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eyeWas dim, and watched no more with eager joyThe wonted call that on thy dull sense sunkWith fruitless repetition, the warm sunMight still have cheered thy slumber; thou didst loveTo lick the hand that fed thee, and though pastYouth's active season, even life itselfWas comfort. Poor old friend! How earnestlyWould I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst beenStill the companion of my childish sports:And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,From many a day-dream has thy short quick barkRecalled my wandering soul. I have beguiledOften the melancholy hours at school,Soured by some little tyrant, with the thoughtOf distant home, and I remembered thenThy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,Returning at the pleasant holidays,I felt from thy dumb welcome. PensivelySometimes have I remarked the slow decay,Feeling myself changed, too, and musing much,On many a sad vicissitude of life!Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst lastThy master's parting footsteps to the gateWhich closed forever on him, thou didst loseThy truest friend, and none was left to pleadFor the old age of brute fidelity!But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;And He who gave thee being did not frameThe mystery of life to be the sportOf merciless man! There is another worldFor all that live and move—a better one!Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confineInfinite goodness to the little boundsOf their own charity, may envy thee!
Robert Southey.
'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest barkBay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will markOur coming, and look brighter when we come.
'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest barkBay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will markOur coming, and look brighter when we come.
Lord Byron.
Here lies poor Nick, an honest creature,Of faithful, gentle, courteous nature;A parlor pet unspoiled by favor,A pattern of good dog behavior,Without a wish, without a dream,Beyond his home and friends at Cheam.Contentedly through life he trotted,Along the path that faith allotted,Till time, his aged body wearing,Bereaved him of his sight and hearing,Then laid him down without a painTo sleep, and never wake again.
Here lies poor Nick, an honest creature,Of faithful, gentle, courteous nature;A parlor pet unspoiled by favor,A pattern of good dog behavior,Without a wish, without a dream,Beyond his home and friends at Cheam.Contentedly through life he trotted,Along the path that faith allotted,Till time, his aged body wearing,Bereaved him of his sight and hearing,Then laid him down without a painTo sleep, and never wake again.
Sydney Smith.
My dog! The difference between thee and meKnows only our Creator—only heCan number the degrees in being's scaleBetween th' Instinctive lamp, ne'er known to fail,And that less steady light, of brighter ray,The soul which animates thy master's clay;And he alone can tell by what fond tieMy look thy life, my death thy sign to die.No, when that feeling quits thy glazing eye'Twill live in some blest world beyond the sky.
My dog! The difference between thee and meKnows only our Creator—only heCan number the degrees in being's scaleBetween th' Instinctive lamp, ne'er known to fail,And that less steady light, of brighter ray,The soul which animates thy master's clay;And he alone can tell by what fond tieMy look thy life, my death thy sign to die.
No, when that feeling quits thy glazing eye'Twill live in some blest world beyond the sky.
Anonymous.
Lowly the soul that waitsAt the white, celestial gates,A threshold soul to greetBelovéd feet.Down the streets that are beams of sunCherubim children run;They welcome it from the wall;Their voices call.But the Warder saith: "Nay, thisIs the City of Holy Bliss.What claim canst thou make goodTo angelhood?""Joy," answereth it from eyesThat are amber ecstasies,Listening, alert, elate,Before the gate.Oh, how the frolic feetOn lonely memory beat!What rapture in a run'Twixt snow and sun!"Nay, brother of the sod,What part hast thou in God?What spirit art thou of?"It answers: "Love."Lifting its head, no lessCajoling a caress,Our winsome collie wraith,Than in glad faith.The door will open wide,Or kind voice bid: "Abide,A threshold soul to greetThe longed-for feet."Ah, Keeper of the Portal,If Love be not immortal,If Joy be not divine,What prayer is mine?
Lowly the soul that waitsAt the white, celestial gates,A threshold soul to greetBelovéd feet.
Down the streets that are beams of sunCherubim children run;They welcome it from the wall;Their voices call.
But the Warder saith: "Nay, thisIs the City of Holy Bliss.What claim canst thou make goodTo angelhood?"
"Joy," answereth it from eyesThat are amber ecstasies,Listening, alert, elate,Before the gate.
Oh, how the frolic feetOn lonely memory beat!What rapture in a run'Twixt snow and sun!
"Nay, brother of the sod,What part hast thou in God?What spirit art thou of?"It answers: "Love."
Lifting its head, no lessCajoling a caress,Our winsome collie wraith,Than in glad faith.
The door will open wide,Or kind voice bid: "Abide,A threshold soul to greetThe longed-for feet."
Ah, Keeper of the Portal,If Love be not immortal,If Joy be not divine,What prayer is mine?
Katherine Lee Bates.
When some proud son of man returns to earth,Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,And storied urns record who rests below;When all is done, upon the tomb is seenNot what he was, but what he should have been,But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend,Whose honest heart is still his master's own,Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,Denied in Heaven the soul he held in earth;While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,And claims himself a sole, exclusive Heaven.Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,Debased by slavery or corrupt by power,Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,Degraded mass of animated dust!Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!By nature vile, ennobled but by name,Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn;To mark a friend's remains these stones arise—I never knew but one, and here he lies.
When some proud son of man returns to earth,Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,And storied urns record who rests below;When all is done, upon the tomb is seenNot what he was, but what he should have been,But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,The first to welcome, foremost to defend,Whose honest heart is still his master's own,Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,Denied in Heaven the soul he held in earth;While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,And claims himself a sole, exclusive Heaven.Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,Debased by slavery or corrupt by power,Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!By nature vile, ennobled but by name,Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn;To mark a friend's remains these stones arise—I never knew but one, and here he lies.
Lord Byron.
This kindly friend of mine who's passedBeyond the realm of day,Beyond the realm of darkling night,To unknown bourne awayWas one who deemed my humble homeA palace grand and fair;Whose fullest joy it was to findHis comrade ever there.Ah! He has gone from out my lifeLike some dear dream I knew.A man may own a hundred dogs,But one he loves, and true.
This kindly friend of mine who's passedBeyond the realm of day,Beyond the realm of darkling night,To unknown bourne away
Was one who deemed my humble homeA palace grand and fair;Whose fullest joy it was to findHis comrade ever there.
Ah! He has gone from out my lifeLike some dear dream I knew.A man may own a hundred dogs,But one he loves, and true.
Anonymous.
The curate thinks you have no soul!I know that he has none. But you,Dear friend! whose solemn self-controlIn our four-square, familiar pew,Was pattern to my youth—whose barkCalled me in summer dawns to rove—Have you gone down into the darkWhere none is welcome, none may love?I will not think those good brown eyesHave spent their light of truth so soon;But in some canine ParadiseYour wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,And quarters every plain and hillSeeking its master. As for me,This prayer at least the gods fulfill—That when I pass the floor, and seeOld Charon by the Stygian coastTake toll of all the shades who land,Your little, faithful, barking ghostMay leap to lick my phantom hand.
The curate thinks you have no soul!I know that he has none. But you,Dear friend! whose solemn self-controlIn our four-square, familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth—whose barkCalled me in summer dawns to rove—Have you gone down into the darkWhere none is welcome, none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyesHave spent their light of truth so soon;But in some canine ParadiseYour wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hillSeeking its master. As for me,This prayer at least the gods fulfill—That when I pass the floor, and see
Old Charon by the Stygian coastTake toll of all the shades who land,Your little, faithful, barking ghostMay leap to lick my phantom hand.
Anonymous.
Dog Jack has gone on the silent trail,Wherever that may be;But well I know, when I whistle the call,He will joyfully answer me.That call will be when I, myself,Have passed through the Gates of Gold;He will come with a rush, and his soft brown eyesWill glisten with love as of old.Oh, Warder of Gates, in the far-away land,This little black dog should you see,Throw wide your doors that this faithful friendMay enter, and wait for me.
Dog Jack has gone on the silent trail,Wherever that may be;But well I know, when I whistle the call,He will joyfully answer me.
That call will be when I, myself,Have passed through the Gates of Gold;He will come with a rush, and his soft brown eyesWill glisten with love as of old.
Oh, Warder of Gates, in the far-away land,This little black dog should you see,Throw wide your doors that this faithful friendMay enter, and wait for me.
H.P.W.
Our Don—only a dog!Yes, only a dog, you say;With a large, warm heart,And a bright, brown eye,With an earnest barkAnd a warm caressFor you and me andThe friends he loved best.Oh, how we shallMiss him, you and I,His noisy welcome, andRough good-bye!Some time, somewhere,Some day, I trust,We shall meet again;Oh, yes, we must!And the joy of that meetingI dare not say.Ay, mock, ye skeptics,And laugh to scornThe faith I holdOf all life that's born;It cannot be wasted,Nor can it be lost.And oh, for the faith,And the Indian's trust,That Don and his mistressWill meet some day—Just over the riverNot far away!
Our Don—only a dog!Yes, only a dog, you say;With a large, warm heart,And a bright, brown eye,With an earnest barkAnd a warm caress
For you and me andThe friends he loved best.Oh, how we shallMiss him, you and I,His noisy welcome, andRough good-bye!
Some time, somewhere,Some day, I trust,We shall meet again;Oh, yes, we must!And the joy of that meetingI dare not say.
Ay, mock, ye skeptics,And laugh to scornThe faith I holdOf all life that's born;It cannot be wasted,Nor can it be lost.
And oh, for the faith,And the Indian's trust,That Don and his mistressWill meet some day—Just over the riverNot far away!
M.S.W.
You are just a poor dumb brute, my Roderick Dhu,And our scientific brethren scoff at you.They "reason" and they "think,"Then they set it down in ink,And clinch it with their learned "point of view."Even some divines deny you have a soul,And reject you from Man's final heav'nly goal:Your presence isn't wantedYou're not of the anointed.You're not upon the mighty Judgment Roll.Yet the truth shines from your eyes, my faithful friend,And your faithfulness doth that of men transcend;You would lie right down and die,Without even wond'ring why,To save the man you loved—and meet your end.When my heart was almost breaking, Roderick Dhu,Who was it gave me sympathy, but you!You crept so close to me,And you licked me tenderly,And not a human friend was half so true.And would I, reasoning wisely, pronounce you just a beast?Your actions "automatic," not "conscious" in the least?Set myself so high above you,As not to know and love you,And toss you but a bone while I shall feast?My bonnie Collie, such wrong there shall not be,Not for me to grasp at Heav'n and leave the Dark for thee,You're nothing but a dog,Not in Heaven's Catalogue—But whatsoe'er thy fate, the same for me.
You are just a poor dumb brute, my Roderick Dhu,And our scientific brethren scoff at you.They "reason" and they "think,"Then they set it down in ink,And clinch it with their learned "point of view."
Even some divines deny you have a soul,And reject you from Man's final heav'nly goal:Your presence isn't wantedYou're not of the anointed.You're not upon the mighty Judgment Roll.
Yet the truth shines from your eyes, my faithful friend,And your faithfulness doth that of men transcend;You would lie right down and die,Without even wond'ring why,To save the man you loved—and meet your end.
When my heart was almost breaking, Roderick Dhu,Who was it gave me sympathy, but you!You crept so close to me,And you licked me tenderly,And not a human friend was half so true.
And would I, reasoning wisely, pronounce you just a beast?Your actions "automatic," not "conscious" in the least?Set myself so high above you,As not to know and love you,And toss you but a bone while I shall feast?
My bonnie Collie, such wrong there shall not be,Not for me to grasp at Heav'n and leave the Dark for thee,You're nothing but a dog,Not in Heaven's Catalogue—But whatsoe'er thy fate, the same for me.
Helen Fitzgerald Sanders.
Where are you now, little wanderingLife, that so faithfully dwelt with us,Played with us, fed with us, felt with us,Years we grew fonder and fonder in?You who but yesterday sprang to us,Are we forever bereft of you?And is this all that is left of you—One little grave, and a pang to us?
Where are you now, little wanderingLife, that so faithfully dwelt with us,Played with us, fed with us, felt with us,Years we grew fonder and fonder in?
You who but yesterday sprang to us,Are we forever bereft of you?And is this all that is left of you—One little grave, and a pang to us?
William Hurrell Mallock.
His friends he loves. His fellest earthly foes—Cats—I believe he did but feign to hate.My hand will miss the insinuated nose,Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.
His friends he loves. His fellest earthly foes—Cats—I believe he did but feign to hate.My hand will miss the insinuated nose,Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.
William Watson.
I miss the little wagging tail;I miss the plaintive, pleading wail;I miss the wistful, loving glance;I miss the circling welcome-dance.I miss the eyes that, watching, sued;I miss her tongue of gratitudeThat licked my hand, in loving mood,When we divided cup or food.I miss the pertinacious scratch(Continued till I raised the latchEach morning), waiting at my door;Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more."What folly!" hints the cynic mind,"Plenty of dogs are left behindTo snap and snarl, to bark and bite,And wake us in the gloomy night."You should have sought a human friend,Whose life eternal ne'er could end—Whose gifts of intellect and graceBereavement never could efface."Plenty of snarling things are left,But I am of a friend bereft;I seek not intellect, but heart—'Tis not my head that feels the smart.While loving sympathy is cherished,While gratitude is not quite perished;While patient, hopeful, cheerful meetingAt our return is pleasant greeting;So long my heart will feel a void—Grieving, my mind will be employed—When I, returning to my door,Shall miss what I shall find no more.When we, at last, shall pass away,And see no more the light of day,Will many hearts as vacant mourn—As truly wish for our return?Yet love that's true will ever knowThe pain of parting. Better so!"Better to love and lose" than cold,And colder still, let hearts grow old.So let the cynic snarl or smile,And his great intellect beguile;My little dog, so true to me,Will dear to heart and memory be.
I miss the little wagging tail;I miss the plaintive, pleading wail;I miss the wistful, loving glance;I miss the circling welcome-dance.
I miss the eyes that, watching, sued;I miss her tongue of gratitudeThat licked my hand, in loving mood,When we divided cup or food.
I miss the pertinacious scratch(Continued till I raised the latchEach morning), waiting at my door;Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more.
"What folly!" hints the cynic mind,"Plenty of dogs are left behindTo snap and snarl, to bark and bite,And wake us in the gloomy night.
"You should have sought a human friend,Whose life eternal ne'er could end—Whose gifts of intellect and graceBereavement never could efface."
Plenty of snarling things are left,But I am of a friend bereft;I seek not intellect, but heart—'Tis not my head that feels the smart.
While loving sympathy is cherished,While gratitude is not quite perished;While patient, hopeful, cheerful meetingAt our return is pleasant greeting;
So long my heart will feel a void—Grieving, my mind will be employed—When I, returning to my door,Shall miss what I shall find no more.
When we, at last, shall pass away,And see no more the light of day,Will many hearts as vacant mourn—As truly wish for our return?
Yet love that's true will ever knowThe pain of parting. Better so!"Better to love and lose" than cold,And colder still, let hearts grow old.
So let the cynic snarl or smile,And his great intellect beguile;My little dog, so true to me,Will dear to heart and memory be.
Henry Willett.
Is there not something in the pleading eyeOf the poor brute that suffers, which arraignsThe law that bids it suffer? Has it notA claim for some remembrance in the bookThat fills its pages with the idle wordsSpoken of man? Or is it only clay,Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,Yet all his own to treat it as he will,And when he will to cast it at his feet,Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?My dog loves me, but could he look beyondHis earthly master, would his love extendTo Him who—hush! I will not doubt that HeIs better than our fears, and will not wrongThe least, the meanest of created things.
Is there not something in the pleading eyeOf the poor brute that suffers, which arraignsThe law that bids it suffer? Has it notA claim for some remembrance in the bookThat fills its pages with the idle wordsSpoken of man? Or is it only clay,Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,Yet all his own to treat it as he will,And when he will to cast it at his feet,Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?My dog loves me, but could he look beyondHis earthly master, would his love extendTo Him who—hush! I will not doubt that HeIs better than our fears, and will not wrongThe least, the meanest of created things.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old cockAs ever did nothing was our dog Jock;A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast,As slow at a fight as swift at a feast;A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail,One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail,When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim,And his course of bark could not strengthen him.Never more now shall our knees be pressedBy his dear old chops in their slobbery rest,Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks,As wise, and as dull, as divinity books.Our old friend's dead, but we all well knowHe's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go,Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be,And his old head never need turn for a flea.
A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old cockAs ever did nothing was our dog Jock;A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast,As slow at a fight as swift at a feast;A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail,One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail,When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim,And his course of bark could not strengthen him.Never more now shall our knees be pressedBy his dear old chops in their slobbery rest,Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks,As wise, and as dull, as divinity books.Our old friend's dead, but we all well knowHe's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go,Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be,And his old head never need turn for a flea.
James Payn.