The Dog's Book of Verse Part 7

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 gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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 and steady, a messenger shot, And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not?

Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then; And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen, The hare on the common, the birds on the bough, Were afraid. They are safe enough now,

For all we can harm them, old master and I.

We have had our last hunt, the game must go by, While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door, For a living. We'll never hunt more.

For time, cold and hardship have stiffened his knee, And since little Lottie died, often I see His hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes, For the lost baby daughter, so pretty and wise.

Oh, it's sad to be old, and to see the blue sky Look far away to the dim, fading eye; To feel the fleet foot growing weary and sore That in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.

I am going--I hear the great wolf on my track; Already around me his shadow falls black.

One hunting cry more! Oh, master, come nigh, And lay the white paw in your own as I die!

Oh, come to me, master; the last hedge is pa.s.sed-- Our tramps in the wildwood are over at last; Stoop lower, and lay my head on your knee.

What! Tears for a useless old hunter like me?

You will see little Lottie again by and by.

I shan't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.

Tell her, loving and trusty, beside you I died, And--bury me, master, not far from her side.

For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.

Ha, master, the shadow! Fire low--it is nigh-- There was never a sound in the still morning heard, But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred.

As he flung himself down on the brute's s.h.a.ggy coat, And watched the faint life in its quivering throat Till it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won, And the death-hunted hound into cover had run.

But long ere the snow over graves softly fell, Old Matthew was resting from labor as well; While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hill The voice of the hound in the morn echoed still.

ANONYMOUS.

A DOG AND A MAN

He was a dog, But he stayed at home And guarded the family night and day.

He was a dog That didn't roam.

He lay on the porch or chased the stray-- The tramps, the burglar, the hen, away; For a dog's true heart for that household beat At morning and evening, in cold and heat.

He was a dog.

He was a man, And didn't stay To cherish his wife and his children fair.

He was a man.

And every day His heart grew callous, its love-beats rare, He thought of himself at the close of day, And, cigar in his fingers, hurried away To the club, the lodge, the store, the show.

But--he had a right to go, you know.

He was a man.

ANONYMOUS.

ROVER-DOG

Old Rover-Dog, he toasts his toes Right by th' chimney-fire wif me.

I turned his long ear wrong side out An' he was s'rprised as he could be!

An' nen he reached right out an' took An' int'rest in my lolly-pop-- That's w'y I shook my finger hard At him, 'cause he jus' better stop.

I ast him which his sweet toof was, An' he jus' laffed an' showed me where He keeps um, up an' down his mouf-- (I guess there's mos' a hundred there).