And right throughout the snow and frost
He faced both shot and shell;
Though unrelieved, he kept his post,
And did his duty well.
By death on death the time was stained,
By want, disease, despair;
Like autumn leaves our army waned,
But still the dog was there.
He cheered us through those hours of gloom;
We fed him in our dearth;
Through him the trench's living tomb
Rang loud with reckless mirth;
And thus, when peace returned once more,
After the city's fall,
That veteran home in pride we bore,
And loved him, one and all.
With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick,
And to old memories clung;
The grim ravines we left glared thick
With death-stones of the young.
Hands which had patted him lay chill,
Voices which called were dumb,
And footsteps that he watched for still
Never again could come.
Never again; this world of woe
Still hurries on so fast;
They come not back; 'tis he must go
To join them in the past.
There, with brave names and deeds entwined,
Which Time may not forget,
Young Fusiliers unborn shall find
The legend of our pet.
Whilst o'er fresh years and other life
Yet in God's mystic urn
The picture of the mighty strife
Arises sad and stern—
Blood all in front, behind far shrines
With women weeping low,
For whom each lost one's fane but shines,
As shines the moon on snow—
Marked by the medal, his of right,
And by his kind, keen face,
Under that visionary light
Poor Bob shall keep his place;
And never may our honored Queen
For love and service pay
Less brave, less patient, or more mean
Than his we mourn today!
Francis Doyle.