The Dog's Book of Verse Part 5

I look into your great, brown eyes, Where love and loyal homage s.h.i.+ne, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 friends.h.i.+p is confessed, And thus we understand.

Ah, Blanco! Did I wors.h.i.+p G.o.d As truly as you wors.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+ft 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, s.h.a.ggy, 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 coa.r.s.e 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 pa.s.sed 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