The Dog's Book
of Verse

Collected by

J. Earl Clauson

"'I never barked when out of season;
I never bit without a reason;
I ne'er insulted weaker brother,
Nor wronged by fraud or force another;'
Though brutes are placed a rank below,
Happy for man could he say so."

Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
Publishers

Copyright, 1916
By SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)

TO
THE MEMORY OF
JACK,
AN AIREDALE

PREFACE

Matthew Arnold, explaining why those were his most popular poems which dealt with his canine pets, Geist, Kaiser, and Max, said that while comparatively few loved poetry, nearly everyone loved dogs.

The literature of the Anglo-Saxon is rich in tributes to the dog, as becomes a race which beyond any other has understood and developed its four-footed companions. Canine heroes whose intelligence and faithfulness our prose writers have celebrated start to the memory in scores—Bill Sykes's white shadow, which refused to be separated from its master even by death; Rab, savagely devoted; the immortal Bob, "son of battle"—true souls all, with hardly a villain among them for artistic contrast. Even Red Wull, the killer, we admire for his courage and lealty.

Within these covers is a selection from a large body of dog verse. It is a selection made on the principle of human appeal. Dialect, and the poems of the earlier writers whose diction strikes oddly on our modern ears, have for the most part been omitted. The place of such classics as may be missed is filled by that vagrant verse which is often most truly the flower of inspiration.

CONTENTS

PART I

PUPPYHOOD

"What other nature yours than of a child
Whose dumbness finds a voice mighty to call,
In wordless pity, to the souls of all,
Whose lives I turn to profit, and whose mute
And constant friendship links the man and brute?"

THE DOG'S BOOK OF VERSE

WE MEET AT MORN

Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear
A patter coming nearer and more near,
And then upon my chamber door
A gentle tapping,
For dogs, though proud, are poor,
And if a tail will do to give command
Why use a hand?
And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping,
And next a scuffle on the passage floor,
And then I know the creature lies to watch
Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch.
And like a spring
That gains its power by being tightly stayed,
The impatient thing
Into the room
Its whole glad heart doth fling,
And ere the gloom
Melts into light, and window blinds are rolled,
I hear a bounce upon the bed,
I feel a creeping toward me—a soft head,
And on my face
A tender nose, and cold—
This is the way, you know, that dogs embrace—
And on my hand, like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung,
The least faint flicker of the warmest tongue
—And so my dog and I have met and sworn
Fresh love and fealty for another morn.

Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley.

THE LOST PUPPY

Say! little pup,
What's up?
Your tail is down
And out of sight
Between your legs;
Why, that ain't right.
Little pup,
Brace up!

Say! little pup,
Look up!
Don't hang your head
And look so sad,
You're all mussed up,
But you ain't mad.
Little pup,
Cheer up!

Say! little pup,
Stir up!
Is that a string
Around your tail?
And was it fast
To a tin pail?
Little pup,
Git up.

Say! little pup,
Talk up.
Were those bad boys
All after you,
With sticks and stones,
And tin cans, too?
Little pup,
Speak up!

Say! little pup,
Stand up!
Let's look at you;
You'd be all right
If you was scrubbed
And shined up bright.
Little pup,
Jump up!

Say! little pup,
Bark up!
Let's hear your voice.
Say, you're a brick!
Now try to beg
And do a trick.
Little pup,
Sit up!

Say! little pup,
Chime up!
Why, you can sing—
Now come with me;
Let's wash and eat
And then we'll see,
Little pup,
What's up!

Henry Firth Wood.

A LAUGH IN CHURCH

She sat on the sliding cushion,
The dear, wee woman of four;
Her feet, in their shiny slippers,
Hung dangling over the floor.
She meant to be good; she had promised,
And so with her big, brown eyes,
She stared at the meetinghouse windows
And counted the crawling flies.

She looked far up at the preacher,
But she thought of the honeybees
Droning away at the blossoms
That whitened the cherry trees.
She thought of a broken basket,
Where curled in a dusky heap,
Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears.
Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle,
Such queer little hearts to beat,
Such swift round tongues to kiss,
Such sprawling, cushiony feet;
She could feel in her clasping fingers
The touch of the satiny skin,
And a cold, wet nose exploring
The dimples under her chin.

Then a sudden ripple of laughter
Ran over the parted lips
So quick that she could not catch it
With her rosy finger-tips.
The people whispered "Bless the child,"
As each one waked from a nap,
But the dear, wee woman hid her face
For shame in her mother's lap.

Anonymous.

TREASURES

They got a bran' new baby
At Bud Hicks' house, you see.
You'd think Bud Hicks had somethin'
The way he talks to me!
He comes around a-braggin',
An' when he wouldn't quit
I said: "What good's a baby?
You can't hunt fleas on it."

Then Bud turned to me an' told me
How loud that kid could yell,
An' lots I can't remember,
He had so much to tell.
But I got tired o' hearin'
An' so I ast him, quick,
"If you wuz in a-swimmin'
Could it go get a stick?"

There is no use a-talkin',
Bud thinks their baby's fine!
Huh! I'd a whole lot rather
Jest have a pup like mine.
I'll bet it's not bald-headed!
But if Bud doesn't fail
To let me hear it yellin',
I'll let him pull Spot's tail.

Anonymous.

THAT THERE LONG DOG

Funniest little feller
You'd ever want to see!
Browner 'an the brownest leaf
In the autumn tree.
Shortest little bow legs!
Jes' barely touch the floor—
And long—b'gosh, the longest dog
I ever seen afore!

But he's mighty amusin',
For all 'at he's so queer,
Eyes so mighty solemn,
Askin' like an' clear,
And when he puts his paws up,
Head stuck on one side—
Jes' naturally love every hair
In his durn Dutch hide.

Alice Gill Ferguson.

MY FRIEND

True and trustful, never doubting,
Is my young and handsome friend;
Always jolly,
Full of fun,
Bright eyes gleaming
Like the sun—
Never see him blue or pouting
From the day's break to its end.

Whether I am "flush" or "busted"
Makes no difference to him!
"Let's be gay, sir"—
He would say, sir—
"Won't have any
Other way, sir!"
Oh, he's never cross and crusted—
Light of heart and full of vim!

Often we go out together
For a ramble far and wide—
Catch the breezes
Fresh and strong
Down the mountain
Swept along—
For we never mind the weather
When we two are side by side.

But my friend is sometimes quiet,
And I've caught his clear brown eye
Gazing at me,
Mute, appealing—
Telling something,
Yet concealing,
Yes, he'd like to talk! Well, try it—
"Bow, wow, wow," and that's his cry!

Anonymous.

TED

I have a little brindle dog,
Seal-brown from tail to head.
His name I guess is Theodore,
But I just call him Ted.

He's only eight months old to-day
I guess he's just a pup;
Pa says he won't be larger
When he is all grown up.

He plays around about the house,
As good as he can be,
He don't seem like a little dog,
He's just like folks to me.

And when it is my bed-time,
Ma opens up the bed;
Then I nestle down real cozy
And just make room for Ted

And oh, how nice we cuddle!
He doesn't fuss or bite,
Just nestles closely up to me
And lays there still all night.

We love each other dearly,
My little Ted and me.
We're just good chums together,
And always hope to be.

Maxine Anna Buck.

LITTLE LOST PUP

He was lost!—Not a shade of doubt of that;
For he never barked at a slinking cat,
But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,
With a drooping ear, and a trembling paw,
And a mournful look in his pleading eye,
And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by
That begged as plain as a tongue could sue,
"Oh, Mister, please may I follow you?"
A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown
Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in!

Well, he won my heart (for I set great store
On my own red Bute, who is here no more)
So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,
And who so glad as that small lost pup?

Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,
And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.
Then if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,
And the world is cold, and I'm feeling blue,
He asserts his right to assuage my woes
With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose,
And a silky head on my arm or knee,
And a paw as soft as a paw can be.

When we rove the woods for a league about
He's as full of pranks as a school let out;
For he romps and frisks like a three-months colt,
And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt.
Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair
Is a gay little pup with his tail in air!

Anonymous.

MY BRINDLE BULL-TERRIER

My brindle bull-terrier, loving and wise,
With his little screw-tail and his wonderful eyes,
With his white little breast and his white little paws
Which, alas! he mistakes very often for claws;
With his sad little gait as he comes from the fight
When he feels that he hasn't done all that he might;
Oh, so fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog,
My near little, queer little, dear little dog!

He shivers and shivers and shakes with the cold;
He huddles and cuddles, though three summers old.
And forsaking the sunshine, endeavors to rove
With his cold little worriments under the stove!

At table, his majesty, dying for meat,—
Yet never despising a lump that is sweet,—
Sits close by my side with his head on my knee
And steals every good resolution from me!
How can I withhold from those worshipping eyes
A small bit of something that stealthily flies
Down under the table and into his mouth
As I tell my dear neighbor of life in the South.

My near little, queer little, dear little dog,
So fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog!
The nearest and queerest and dearest of all
The race that is loving and winning and small;
The sweetest, most faithful, the truest and best
Dispenser of merriment, love and unrest!

Coletta Ryan.

LAUTH

He was a gash and faithfu' tyke
As ever lapt a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sawnsie, bawsint face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towsie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black.
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung ower his hurdies wi' a swurl.

Robert Burns.

THE DROWNED SPANIEL

The day-long bluster of the storm was o'er,
The sands were bright; the winds had fallen asleep,
And, from the far horizon, o'er the deep
The sunset swam unshadowed to the shore.

High up, the rainbow had not passed away,
When, roving o'er the shingle beach, I found
A little waif, a spaniel newly drowned;
The shining waters kissed him as he lay.

In some kind heart thy gentle memory dwells,
I said, and, though thy latest aspect tells
Of drowning pains and mortal agony,
Thy master's self might weep and smile to see
His little dog stretched on these rosy shells,
Betwixt the rainbow and the rosy sea.

Charles Tennyson Turner.

PART II

THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP

"A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens."

Senator George Graham Vest.

CLUNY

I am quite sure he thinks that I am God—
Since he is God on whom each one depends
For 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 I
To 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 take
But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail.

And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear
He is content and quiet if I'm near,
Secure that my protection will prevail!

So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he
Tells me what I unto my God should be.

William Croswell Doane.

THE BEST FRIEND

If I was sad, then he had grief, as well—
Seeking my hands with soft insistent paw,
Searching my face with anxious eyes that saw
More 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 strive
To 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.

MY DOG AND I

When living seems but little worth
And 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 just
To be with me.

He notes by just one upward glance
My mental attitude,
As on we go past laughing stream
And singing wood.

The soft winds have a magic touch
That 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 athrill
And joy and song.

Discouragement! 'Twas but a name,
And all things that annoy,
Out in the lovely world of June
Life 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.

MY GENTLEMAN

I own a dog who is a gentleman;
By birth most surely, since the creature can
Boast of a pedigree the like of which
Holds not a Howard nor a Metternich.

By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod
He never wagged an unkind tale abroad,
He never snubbed a nameless cur because
Without a friend or credit card he was.

By pride. He looks you squarely in the face
Unshrinking and without a single trace
Of either diffidence or arrogant
Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt.

By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear
With absolute impunity his hair,
And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the while
He smiles upon her—yes, I've seen him smile.

By loyalty. No truer friend than he
Has 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.

THE DEAD BOY'S PORTRAIT AND HIS DOG

Day after day I have come and sat
Beseechingly 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 stare
So far out in the distance where
I am not? I am here! Not there!

What has your little doggie done?
You used to whistle me to run
Beside you, or ahead, for fun!

You used to pat me, and a glow
Of pleasure through my life would go!
How is it that I shiver so?

My tail was once a waving flag
Of welcome. Now I cannot wag
It for the weight I have to drag.

I know not what has come to me.
'Tis only in my sleep I see
Things smiling as they used to be.

I do not dare to bark; I plead
But 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.

ADVICE TO A DOG PAINTER

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 breast
Where 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.

MERCY'S REWARD

Hast seen
The 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 veil
Was stripped from off her weeping face, and pale
Her shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye,
And her lips drawn with terror at the cry
Of the harsh people, and the rugged stones
Borne in their hands to break her flesh and bones;
For the law stood that sinners such as she
Perish by stoning, and this doom must be;
So went the adult'ress to her death.
High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breath
Blew from the desert sands and parched the town.
The crows gasped, and the kine went up and down
With lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowd
Pressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loud
About 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 up
The long silk of her girdle, made a cup
Of the heel's hollow, and thus let it sink
Until it touched the cool black water's brink;
So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draught
To the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffed
Her kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand,
With such glad looks that all might understand
He held his life from her; then, at her feet
He 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 die
Had such compassion for the misery
Of that parched hound: "Take off her chain, and place
The 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 dead
For that which thou hast wrought; but there is come
Fawning around thy feet a witness dumb,
Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beast
Testifies for thee, sister! whose weak breast
Death could not make ungentle. I hold rule
In 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.

BEAU AND THE WATER LILY

The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When 'scaped from literary cares
I wandered on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree
(Two nymphs adorned with every grace
That spaniel found for me)

Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time that Ouse displayed
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wished my own.

With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
With fixed, considerate face,
And puzzling, set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.

But with a chirrup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and followed long
The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I returned;
Beau trotting far before
The floating wreath again discerned,
And, plunging, left the shore.

I saw him, with that lily cropped,
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropped
The treasure at my feet.

Charmed with the sight, "The world," I cried,
"Shall hear of this thy deed;
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:

"But chief myself I will enjoin
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all."

William Cowper.

PETRONIUS

A dog there was, Petronius by name—
A cur of no degree, yet which the same
Rejoiced him; because so worthless he
That in his worthlessness remarkably
He shone, th' example de luxe of how a cur
May be the very limit of a slur
Upon the honored name of dog; a joke
He was, a satire blasphemous; he broke
The 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 flame
Of love, affection, reverence, so rare
That had he been an angel bright and fair
The homage paid him had been less; you see
The red-haired boy who owned him had a bee—
There was no other dog on land or sea.
Petronius was solid; he just was
The dog, the only dog on earth, because—
Because a red-haired boy who likes his dog,
He likes that dog so much no other dog
Exists—and that, my friends, is loyalty,
Than which there is no grander ecstasy.

Frederic P. Ladd.

MY DOG

Here is a friend who proves his worth
Without 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 eyes
There beams more love than mortals know;
Meanwhile he wags his tail to show
That he's my dog.

He watches me all through the day,
And nothing coaxes him away;
And through the night-long slumber deep
He guards the home wherein I sleep—
And he's a dog.

I wonder if I'd be content
To follow where my master went,
And where he rode—as needs he must—
Would I run after in his dust
Like other dogs.

How strange if things were quite reversed—
The man debased, the dog put first.
I often wonder how 'twould be
Were he the master 'stead of me—
And I the dog.

A world of deep devotion lies
Behind 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 men
What breed of dog would I have been?
And would I e'er deserve caress,
Or be extolled for faithfulness
Like my dog here?

As mortals go, how few possess
Of courage, trust, and faithfulness
Enough from which to undertake,
Without some borrowed traits, to make
A decent dog!

Joseph M. Anderson.

CHARITY'S EYE

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 see
What 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 one
Rebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own;
And one exclaimed: "No creature so accursed can be
But some good thing in him a loving eye will see."

William Rounseville Alger.

TO BLANCO

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 lies
Between your soul and mine.

For all of good that I have found
Within myself, or human kind,
Hath royally informed and crowned
Your gentle heart and mind.

I scan the whole broad earth around
For 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 injury
As 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 joy
To 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 God
As truly as you worship me,
Or follow where my Master trod
With 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.

THE OULD HOUND

When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut
He'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 eyes
Lean Shamus would stare wid his own!

And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound
When Shamus lay sick on his bed—
Ay, waitin' and watchin' wid sad eyes
He'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 dog
Wid a love that was deeper than life—
But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered
That 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.

THE MISER'S ONLY FRIEND

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 shone
Like a live coal; and he possessed but one.
His bark was wild and eager, and became
That meager body and that eye of flame;
His master prized him much, and Fang his name,
His master fed him largely, but not that
Nor 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 they
In earlier times—each dog will have his day.

The notes of Fang were to his master known
And 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 Fang
There 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 before
Was 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 laid
In grim repose—their debt to nature paid.
The master's hand upon the cur's cold chest
Was now reclined, and had before been pressed,
As if he sought how deep and wide the wound
That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;
And when he found it was the sleep of death
A sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath.
Close to his trusty servant he was found,
As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.

George Crabbe.

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.

MY COMFORTER

The world had all gone wrong that day
And 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 eyes
Gazed down into my heart.

I had a friend; what cared I now
For fifty worlds? I knew
One 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 ear
And we were happy—quite.

Anonymous.

THE LITTLE WHITE DOG

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 near
The dearest of all the things held dear?
Or is the home you left behind
The dream of bliss to your doggish mind?
But the little white dog just shook his head
As 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 joy
Is just to trot behind that boy.

May Ellis Nichols.

THE IRISH GREYHOUND

Behold this creature's form and state;
Which nature therefore did create,
That to the world might be exprest
What mien there can be in a beast;
And that we in this shape may find
A lion of another kind.
For this heroic beast does seem
In majesty to rival him,
And yet vouchsafes to man to show
Both service and submission, too.
From whence we this distinction have,
That beast is fierce, but this is brave.
This dog hath so himself subdued
That hunger cannot make him rude,
And his behavior does confess
True courage dwells with gentleness.
With sternest wolves he dares engage,
And acts on them successful rage.
Yet too much courtesy may chance
To put him out of countenance.
When in his opposer's blood
Fortune hath made his virtue good,
This creature from an act so brave
Grows 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.

THE VAGABONDS

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 living
Would 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 gin
That 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 your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To 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 warm
To 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 then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!
If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
That ever I, Sir, should be straying
From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
Ragged and penniless, and playing
To 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 life
Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On 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 know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This 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 performing
For 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.

IN CINEAM

Thou dogged Cineas, hated like a dog,
For still thou grumblest like a masty dog,
Compar'st thyself to nothing but a dog;
Thou say'st thou art as weary as a dog,
As angry, sick, and hungry as a dog,
As dull and melancholy as a dog,
As lazy, sleepy, idle as a dog.
But why dost thou compare thee to a dog
In that for which all men despise a dog?
I will compare thee better to a dog;
Thou art as fair and comely as a dog,
Thou art as true and honest as a dog,
Thou art as kind and liberal as a dog,
Thou art as wise and valiant as a dog,
But, Cineas, I have often heard thee tell
Thou art as like thy father as may be:
'Tis like enough; and, faith, I like it well;
But I am glad thou art not like to me.

Sir John Davies.