The Dogs Book of Verse | Page 8

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