The Dogs Book of Verse | Page 9

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: