Confound not, I beseech thee, reader, the subject of the following monody with the hapless hero of the tea-urn, Cupid, of "Yow-Yow"-ing memory. Tray was an attached favourite of many years' standing. Most people worth loving have had a friend of this kind; Lord Byron says he "never had but one, and here he (the dog, not the nobleman,) lies!"
[THE CYNOTAPH.]
Poor Tray charmant! Poor Tray de mon Ami!
Dog-bury and Vergers.
Oh! where shall I bury my poor dog Tray, Now his fleeting breath has passed away?— Seventeen years, I can venture to say, Have I seen him gambol, and frolic, and play, Evermore happy, and frisky, and gay, As though every one of his months was May, And the whole of his life one long holiday— Now he's a lifeless lump of clay, Oh! where shall I bury my faithful Tray?
I am almost tempted to think it hard That it may not be there, in yon sunny churchyard, Where the green willows wave O'er the peaceful grave, Which holds all that once was honest and brave, Kind, and courteous, and faithful, and true; Qualities, Tray, that were found in you. But it may not be—yon sacred ground, By holiest feelings fenced around, May ne'er within its hallow'd bound Receive the dust of a soul-less hound.
I would not place him in yonder fane, Where the mid-day sun through the storied pane Throws on the pavement a crimson stain; Where the banners of chivalry heavily swing O'er the pinnacled tomb of the Warrior King, With helmet and shield, and all that sort of thing. No!—come what may, My gentle Tray Shan't be an intruder on bluff Harry Tudor, Or panoplied monarchs yet earlier and ruder, Whom you see on their backs, In stone or in wax, Though the Sacristans now are "forbidden to ax" For what Mister Hume calls "a scandalous tax;" While the Chartists insist they've a right to go snacks.— No!—Tray's humble tomb would look but shabby 'Mid the sculptured shrines of that gorgeous Abbey. Besides, in the place They say there's no space To bury what wet-nurses call "a Babby." Even "Rare Ben Jonson," that famous wight, I am told, is interr'd there bolt upright, In just such a posture, beneath his bust, As Tray used to sit in to beg for a crust. The epitaph, too, Would scarcely do: For what could it say, but, "Here lies Tray, A very good kind of a dog in his day?" And satirical folks might be apt to imagine it Meant as a quiz on the House of Plantagenet.
No! no!—The Abbey may do very well For a feudal "Nob," or poetical "Swell," "Crusaders," or "Poets," or "Knights of St. John," Or Knights of St. John's Wood, who once went on To the Castle of Goode Lorde Eglintonne. Count Fiddle-fumkin, and Lord Fiddle-faddle, "Sir Craven," "Sir Gael," and "Sir Campbell of Saddell," (Who, as poor Hook said, when he heard of the feat, "Was somehow knock'd out of his family-seat:") The Esquires of the body To my Lord Tomnoddy; "Sir Fairlie," "Sir Lamb," And the "Knight of the Ram," The "Knight of the Rose," and the "Knight of the Dragon," Who, save at the flagon, And prog in the wagon, The newspapers tell us did little "to brag on;"