The dog's book of verse

THE BEST FRIEND I am quite sure he thinks that I am God— Since he is God on whom each one depends For life, and all things that his bounty sends— My dear old dog, most constant of all friends; Not quick to mind, but quicker far than I To him whom God I know and own; his eye, Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod; He is more patient underneath the rod Than I, when God his wise corrections sends. He looks love at me deep as words e'er spake, And from me never crumb or sup will take But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail. And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear He is content and quiet if I'm near, Secure that my protection will prevail! So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he Tells me what I unto my God should be. William Croswell Doane . THE BEST FRIEND If I was sad, then he had grief, as well— Seeking my hands with soft insistent paw, Searching my face with anxious eyes that saw More than my halting, human speech could tell; Eyes wide with wisdom, fine, compassionate— Dear, loyal one, that knew not wrong nor hate. If I made merry—then how he would strive To show his joy; "Good master, let's to play, The world is ours," that gladsome bark would say; "Just yours and mine—'tis fun to be alive!" Our world ... four walls above the city's din, My crutch the bar that ever held us in. Whate'er my mood—the fretful word, or sweet, The swift command, the wheedling undertone, His faith was fixed, his love was mine, alone, His heaven was here at my slow crippled feet: Oh, friend thrice-lost; oh, fond heart unassailed, Ye taught me trust when man's dull logic failed. Meribah Abbott . MY DOG AND I When living seems but little worth And all things go awry, I close the door, we journey forth— My dog and I! For books and pen we leave behind, But little careth he, His one great joy in life is just To be with me. He notes by just one upward glance My mental attitude, As on we go past laughing stream And singing wood. The soft winds have a magic touch That brings to care release, The trees are vocal with delight, The rivers sing of peace. How good it is to be alive! Nature, the healer strong, Has set each pulse with life athrill And joy and song. Discouragement! 'Twas but a name, And all things that annoy, Out in the lovely world of June Life seemeth only joy! And ere we reach the busy town, Like birds my troubles fly, We are two comrades glad of heart— My dog and I! Alice J. Cleator . MY GENTLEMAN I own a dog who is a gentleman; By birth most surely, since the creature can Boast of a pedigree the like of which Holds not a Howard nor a Metternich. By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod He never wagged an unkind tale abroad, He never snubbed a nameless cur because Without a friend or credit card he was. By pride. He looks you squarely in the face Unshrinking and without a single trace Of either diffidence or arrogant Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt. By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear With absolute impunity his hair, And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the while He smiles upon her—yes, I've seen him smile. By loyalty. No truer friend than he Has come to prove his friendship's worth to me. He does not fear the master—knows no fear— But loves the man who is his master here. By countenance. If there be nobler eyes, More full of honor and of honesties, In finer head, on broader shoulders found, Then have I never met the man or hound. Here is the motto on my lifeboat's log: "God grant I may be worthy of my dog!" Anonymous . THE DEAD BOY'S PORTRAIT AND HIS DOG Day after day I have come and sat Beseechingly upon the mat, Wistfully wondering where you are at. Why have they placed you on the wall, So deathly still, so strangely tall? You do not turn from me, nor call. Why do I never hear my name? Why are you fastened in a frame? You are the same, and not the same. Away from me why do you stare So far out in the distance where I am not? I am here! Not there! What has your little doggie done? You used to whistle me to run Beside you, or ahead, for fun! You used to pat me, and a glow Of pleasure through my life would go! How is it that I shiver so? My tail was once a waving flag Of welcome. Now I cannot wag It for the weight I have to drag. I know not what has come to me. 'Tis only in my sleep I see Things smiling as they used to be. I do not dare to bark; I plead But dumbly, and you never heed; Nor my protection seem to need. I watch the door, I watch the gate; I am watching early, watching late, Your doggie still!—I watch and wait. Gerald Massey . ADVICE TO A DOG PAINTER Happiest of the spaniel race, Painter, with thy colors grace, Draw his forehead large and high, Draw his blue and humid eye; Draw his neck, so smooth and round, Little neck with ribands bound; And the musely swelling breast Where the Loves and Graces rest; And the spreading, even back, Soft, and sleek, and glossy black; And the tail that gently twines, Like the tendrils of the vines; And the silky twisted hair, Shadowing thick the velvet ear; Velvet ears which, hanging low, O'er the veiny temples flow. Jonathan Swift . MERCY'S REWARD Hast seen The record written of Salah-ud-Deen, The Sultan—how he met, upon a day, In his own city on the public way, A woman whom they led to die? The veil Was stripped from off her weeping face, and pale Her shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye, And her lips drawn with terror at the cry Of the harsh people, and the rugged stones Borne in their hands to break her flesh and bones; For the law stood that sinners such as she Perish by stoning, and this doom must be; So went the adult'ress to her death. High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breath Blew from the desert sands and parched the town. The crows gasped, and the kine went up and down With lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowd Pressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loud About the tank; and one dog by a well, Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell, Glaring upon the water out of reach, And praying succour in a silent speech, So piteous were its eyes. Which, when she saw, This woman from her foot her shoe did draw, Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping up The long silk of her girdle, made a cup Of the heel's hollow, and thus let it sink Until it touched the cool black water's brink; So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draught To the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffed Her kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand, With such glad looks that all might understand He held his life from her; then, at her feet He followed close, all down the cruel street, Her one friend in that city. But the King, Riding within his litter, marked this thing, And how the woman, on her way to die Had such compassion for the misery Of that parched hound: "Take off her chain, and place The veil once more about the sinner's face, And lead her to her house in peace!" he said. "The law is that the people stone thee dead For that which thou hast wrought; but there is come Fawning around thy feet a witness dumb, Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beast Testifies for thee, sister! whose weak breast Death could not make ungentle. I hold rule In Allah's stead, who is 'the Merciful,' And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free— I dare not show less pity unto thee." As we forgive—and more than we— Ya Barr! Good God, show clemency. Sir Edwin Arnold . BEAU AND THE WATER LILY The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When 'scaped from literary cares I wandered on his side. My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree (Two nymphs adorned with every grace That spaniel found for me) Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight. It was the time that Ouse displayed His lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent surveyed, And one I wished my own. With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand. Beau marked my unsuccessful pains With fixed, considerate face, And puzzling, set his puppy brains To comprehend the case. But with a chirrup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and followed long The windings of the stream. My ramble ended, I returned; Beau trotting far before The floating wreath again discerned, And, plunging, left the shore. I saw him, with that lily cropped, Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropped The treasure at my feet. Charmed with the sight, "The world," I cried, "Shall hear of this thy deed; My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed: "But chief myself I will enjoin Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all." William Cowper . PETRONIUS A dog there was, Petronius by name— A cur of no degree, yet which the same Rejoiced him; because so worthless he That in his worthlessness remarkably He shone, th' example de luxe of how a cur May be the very limit of a slur Upon the honored name of dog; a joke He was, a satire blasphemous; he broke The records all for sheer insulting "bunk;" No dog had ever breathed who was so punk! And yet that cur, Petronius by name, Enkindled in his master's heart a flame Of love, affection, reverence, so rare That had he been an angel bright and fair The homage paid him had been less; you see The red-haired boy who owned him had a bee— There was no other dog on land or sea. Petronius was solid; he just was The dog, the only dog on earth, because— Because a red-haired boy who likes his dog, He likes that dog so much no other dog Exists—and that, my friends, is loyalty, Than which there is no grander ecstasy. Frederic P. Ladd . MY DOG Here is a friend who proves his worth Without conceit or pride of birth. Let want or plenty play the host, He gets the least and gives the most— He's just a dog. He's ever faithful, kind and true; He never questions what I do, And whether I may go or stay, He's always ready to obey 'Cause he's a dog. Such meager fare his want supplies! A hand caress, and from his eyes There beams more love than mortals know; Meanwhile he wags his tail to show That he's my dog. He watches me all through the day, And nothing coaxes him away; And through the night-long slumber deep He guards the home wherein I sleep— And he's a dog. I wonder if I'd be content To follow where my master went, And where he rode—as needs he must— Would I run after in his dust Like other dogs. How strange if things were quite reversed— The man debased, the dog put first. I often wonder how 'twould be Were he the master 'stead of me— And I the dog. A world of deep devotion lies Behind the windows of his eyes; Yet love is only half his charm— He'd die to shield my life from harm. Yet he's a dog. If dogs were fashioned out of men What breed of dog would I have been? And would I e'er deserve caress, Or be extolled for faithfulness Like my dog here? As mortals go, how few possess Of courage, trust, and faithfulness Enough from which to undertake, Without some borrowed traits, to make A decent dog! Joseph M. Anderson . CHARITY'S EYE One evening Jesus lingered in the marketplace, Teaching the people parables of truth and grace, When in the square remote a crowd was seen to rise, And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries. The Master and his meek disciples went to see What cause for this commotion and disgust could be, And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid— Revolting sight! at which each face its hate betrayed. One held his nose, one shut his eyes, one turned away, And all among themselves began to say: "Detested creature! he pollutes the earth and air!" "His eyes are blear!" "His ears are foul!" "His ribs are bare!" "In his torn hide there's not a decent shoestring left, No doubt the execrable cur was hung for theft." Then Jesus spake, and dropped on him the saving wreath: "Even pearls are dark before the whiteness of his teeth." The pelting crowd grew silent and ashamed, like one Rebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own; And one exclaimed: "No creature so accursed can be But some good thing in him a loving eye will see." William Rounseville Alger . TO BLANCO My dear, dumb friend, low-lying there, A willing vassal at my feet, Glad partner of my home and fare, My shadow in the street, I look into your great, brown eyes, Where love and loyal homage shine, And wonder where the difference lies Between your soul and mine. For all of good that I have found Within myself, or human kind, Hath royally informed and crowned Your gentle heart and mind. I scan the whole broad earth around For that one heart which, leal and true, Bears friendship without end or bound, And find the prize in you. I trust you as I trust the stars; Nor cruel loss, nor scoff, nor pride, Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars, Can move you from my side. As patient under injury As any Christian saint of old, As gentle as a lamb with me, But with your brothers bold. More playful than a frolic boy, More watchful than a sentinel, By day and night your constant joy To guard and please me well. I clasp your head upon my breast, The while you whine, and lick my hand; And thus our friendship is confessed, And thus we understand. Ah, Blanco! Did I worship God As truly as you worship me, Or follow where my Master trod With your humility, Did I sit fondly at His feet, As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine, And watch Him with a love as sweet, My life would grow divine. J.G. Holland . THE OULD HOUND When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut He'd naught but a hound to his name; And whither he went thrailed the ould friend, Dog-faithful and iver the same! And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time, He'd eat thro' a wall or a door, He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther, To be wid his master wanst more! And the two, faith, would share their last bannock; They'd share their last collop and bone; And deep in the starin' ould sad eyes Lean Shamus would stare wid his own! And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound When Shamus lay sick on his bed— Ay, waitin' and watchin' wid sad eyes He'd eat not av bone or av bread! But Shamus be springtime grew betther, And a trouble came into his mind; And he'd take himself off to the village, And be leavin' his hound behind! And deep was the whine of the ould dog Wid a love that was deeper than life— But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered That Shamus was takin' a wife! A wife and a fine house he got him; In a shay he went drivin' around; And I met him be chance at the cross-roads, And I says to him, "How's the ould hound?" "My wife never took to that ould dog," Says he, wid a shrug av his slats, "So we've got us a new dog from Galway, And och, he's the divil for rats!" Arthur Stringer . THE MISER'S ONLY FRIEND There watched a cur before the miser's gate— A very cur, whom all men seemed to hate; Gaunt, shaggy, savage, with an eye that shone Like a live coal; and he possessed but one. His bark was wild and eager, and became That meager body and that eye of flame; His master prized him much, and Fang his name, His master fed him largely, but not that Nor aught of kindness made the snarler fat. Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay— He barked, and snarled, and growled it all away. His ribs were seen extended like a rack, And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back. Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore, Now his sore body made his temper sore. Such was the friend of him who could not find, Nor make him one, 'mong creatures of his kind. Brave deeds of Fang his master often told, The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old, From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they In earlier times—each dog will have his day. The notes of Fang were to his master known And dear—they bore some likeness to his own; For both conveyed, to the experienced ear, "I snarl and bite because I hate and fear." None passed ungreeted by the master's door, Fang railed at all, but chiefly at the poor; And when the nights were stormy, cold and dark, The act of Fang was a perpetual bark. But though the master loved the growl of Fang There were who vowed the ugly cur to hang, Whose angry master, watchful for his friend, As strongly vowed his servant to defend. In one dark night, and such as Fang before Was ever known its tempests to outroar, To his protector's wonder now expressed, No angry notes—his anger was at rest. The wond'ring master sought the silent yard, Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred, Nor more returned to 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 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

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