The Dog's Book of Verse Part 12

In fields abroad he looks unto thy flocks, Keeping them safe from wolves and other beasts; And oftentimes he bears away the knocks Of some odd thief that many a fold infests._

TOLD TO THE MISSIONARY

Just look 'ee here, Mr. Preacher, you're a-goin' a bit too fur; There isn't the man as is livin' as I'd let say a word agen her.

She's a rum-lookin' b.i.t.c.h, that I own to, and there is a fierce look in her eyes, But if any cove says as she's vicious, I sez in his teeth he lies.

Soh! Gently, old 'ooman; come here, now, and set by my side on the bed; I wonder who'll have yer, my beauty, when him as you're all to 's dead.

There, stow yer palaver a minit; I knows as my end is nigh; Is a cove to turn round on his dog, like, just 'cos he's goin' to die?

Oh, of course, I was sartin you'd say it. It's allus the same with you.

Give it us straight, now, guv'nor--what would you have me do?

Think of my soul? I do, sir. Think of my Saviour? Right!

Don't be afeard of the b.i.t.c.h, sir; she's not a-goin' to bite.

Tell me about my Saviour--tell me that tale agen, How he prayed for the coves as killed him, and died for the worst of men.

It's a tale as I always liked, sir; and bound for the 'ternal sh.o.r.e, I thinks it aloud to myself, sir, and I likes it more and more.

I've thumbed it out in the Bible, and I know it now by heart, And it's put the steam in my boiler, and made me ready to start.

I ain't not afraid to die now; I've been a bit bad in my day, But I know when I knock at them portals there's one as won't say me nay.

And it's thinkin' about that story, and all as he did for us, As make me so fond o' my dawg, sir; especially now I'm wus; For a-savin' o' folks who'd kill us is a beautiful act, the which I never heard tell on o' no one, 'cept o' him and o' that there b.i.t.c.h.

'Twas five years ago come Chrismus, maybe you remember the row, There was scares about hydryphoby--same as there be just now; And the bobbies came down on us costers--came in a reggerlar wax, And them as 'ud got no license was summerned to pay the tax.

But I had a friend among 'em, and he come in a friendly way, And he sez, 'You must settle your dawg, Bill, unless you've a mind to pay.'

The missus was dyin' wi' fever--I'd made a mistake in my pitch, I couldn't afford to keep her, so I sez, 'I'll drownd the b.i.t.c.h.'

I wasn't a-goin' to lose her, I warn't such a brute, you bet, As to leave her to die by inches o' hunger, and cold, and wet; I never said now't to the missus--we both on us liked her well-- But I takes her the follerin' Sunday down to the Grand Canell.

I gets her tight by the collar--the Lord forgive my sin!

And, kneelin' down on the towpath, I ducks the poor beast in.

She gave just a sudden whine like, then a look comes into her eyes As 'ull last forever in mine, sir, up to the day I dies.

And a chill came over my heart then, and thinkin' I heard her moan, I held her below the water, beating her skull with a stone.

You can see the mark of it now, sir--that place on the top of 'er 'ed-- And sudden she ceased to struggle, and I fancied as she was dead.

I shall never know how it happened, but goin' to lose my hold, My knees slipped over the towpath, and into the stream I rolled; Down like a log I went, sir, and my eyes were filled with mud, And the water was tinged above me with a murdered creeter's blood.

I gave myself up for lost then, and I cursed in my wild despair, And sudden I rose to the surfis, and a su'thing grabbed at my hair, Grabbed at my hair and loosed it, and grabbed me agin by the throat, And she was a-holdin' my 'ed up, and somehow I kep' afloat.

I can't tell yer 'ow she done it, for I never knowed no more Till somebody seized my collar, and give me a lug ash.o.r.e; And my head was queer and dizzy, but I see as the b.i.t.c.h was weak, And she lay on her side a-pantin', waitin' for me to speak.

What did I do with her, eh? You'd a-hardly need to ax, But I sold my barrer a Monday, and paid the bloomin' tax.

That's right, Mr. Preacher, pat her--you ain't not afeared of her now!-- Dang this here tellin' of stories--look at the muck on my brow.

I'm weaker, an' weaker, an' weaker; I fancy the end ain't fur, But you know why here on my deathbed I think o' the Lord and her, And he who, by men's hands tortured, uttered that prayer divine, 'Ull pardon me linkin' him like with a dawg as forgave like mine.

When the Lord in his mercy calls me to my last eternal pitch, I know as you'll treat her kindly--promise to take my b.i.t.c.h!

GEORGE R. SIMS.

THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE

With gentle tread, with uncovered head, Pa.s.s by the Louvre gate, Where buried lie the "men of July,"

And flowers are hung by the pa.s.sers-by, And the dog howls desolate.

That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught, Had rushed with his master on, And both fought well; But the master fell, And behold the surviving one!

By his lifeless clay, s.h.a.ggy and gray, His fellow-warrior stood; Nor moved beyond, But mingled fond Big tears with his master's blood.

Vigil he keeps By those green heaps That tell where heroes lie.

No pa.s.ser-by Can attract his eye, For he knows it is not He!

At the dawn, when dew Wets the garlands new That are hung in this place of mourning, He will start to meet The coming feet Of him whom he dreamt returning.

On the grave's wood-cross When the chaplets toss, By the blast of midnight shaken, How he howleth! hark!

From that dwelling dark The slain he would fain awaken.

When the snow comes fast On the chilly blast, Blanching the bleak church-yard, With limbs outspread On the dismal bed Of his liege, he still keeps guard.

Oft in the night, With main and might, He strives to raise the stone; Short respite takes: "If master wakes, He'll call me," then sleeps on.

Of bayonet blades, Of barricades, And guns he dreams the most; Starts from his dream, And then would seem To eye a pleading ghost.

He'll linger there In sad despair And die on his master's grave.

His home?--'tis known To the dead alone,-- He's the dog of the nameless brave!

Give a tear to the dead, And give some bread To the dog of the Louvre gate!

Where buried lie the men of July, And flowers are hung by the pa.s.sers-by, And the dog howls desolate.

RALPH CECIL.

THE CHASE

Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career.

Yon crowding flock, that at a distance gaze, Have haply foil'd the turf. See that old hound!

How busily he works, but dares not trust His doubtful sense; draws yet a wider ring.

Hark! Now again the chorus fills. As bells, Sally'd awhile, at once their paean renew, And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls, See how they toss, with animated rage Recovering all they lost! That eager haste Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! Yet once more

They're checked, hold back with speed--on either hand They flourish round--e'en yet persist--'tis right.

Away they spring. The rustling stubbles bend Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.

From brake to brake she flies, and visits all Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure, With love and plenty blest. See! There she goes, She reels along, and by her gait betrays Her inward weakness. See how black she looks!

The sweat, that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves A languid scent. And now in open view See! See! She flies! Each eager hound exerts His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve; How quick she turns! Their gaping jaws eludes, And yet a moment lives--till, round enclosed By all the greedy pack, with infant screams She yields her breath, and there, reluctant, dies.