The Dogs Book of Verse | Page 9

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.
OLD MATTHEW'S DOG
I am only a dog, and I've had my day;?So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I lay?In the welcome warmth of the summer sun,?A poor old hunter whose work is done.
Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog.?Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log??Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,?Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,
Far away in the top of the hickory tree,?Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,?Till the hand, true