FRANCES
You were a friend, Frances, a friend,
With feeling and regard and capable of woe.
Oh, yes, I know you were a dog, but I was just a man.
I did not buy you; no, you simply came,
Lost, and squatted on my doorstep.
The place was strange—you quivered, but stayed on,
And I had need of you.
No other fellow could make you follow him,
For you had chosen me to be your pal.
My whistle was your law,
You put your paw
Upon my palm,
And in your calm, deep eyes was writ
The promise of long comradeship.
When I came home from work,
Late and ill-tempered,
Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;
Your nose was at the door-crack;
And whether I'd been bad or good that day
You fawned, and loved me just the same.
It was your way to understand.
And if I struck you, my harsh hand
Was met with your caresses.
You took my leavings, crumb and bone,
And stuck by me through thick and thin—
You were my kin.
And then one day you died
And were put deep.
But though you sleep, and ever sleep,
I sense you at my heels.
Richard Wightman.
TO MY SETTER, SCOUT
You are a tried and loyal friend;
The end
Of life will find you leal, unweary
Of tested bonds that naught can rend,
And e'en if years be sad and dreary,
Our plighted friendship will extend.
A truer friend man never had;
'Tis sad
That 'mongst all earthly friends the fewest
Unfaithful ones should thus be clad
In canine lowliness; yet truest
They, be their treatment good or bad.
Within your eyes methinks I find
A kind
And thoughtful look of speechless feeling
That mem'ry's loosened cords unbind,
And let the dreamy past come stealing
Through your dumb, reflective mind.
Scout, my trusty friend, can it be
You see
Again, in retrospective dreaming,
The run, the woodland, and the lea,
With past autumnal sunshine streaming
O'er ev'ry frost-dyed field and tree?