The Dog's Book of Verse Part 15

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a G.o.dly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, And curs of low degree.

The dog and man at first were friends, But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE FUSILIERS' DOG

Go lift him gently from the wheels, And soothe his dying pain, For love and care e'en yet he feels Though love and care be vain; 'Tis sad that, after all these years, Our comrade and our friend, The brave dog of the Fusiliers, Should meet with such an end.

Up Alma's hill, among the vines, We laughed to see him trot, Then frisk along the silent lines To chase the rolling shot; And, when the work waxed hard by day, And hard and cold by night, When that November morning lay Upon us, like a blight;

And eyes were strained, and ears were bent, Against the muttering north, Till the gray mist took shape and sent Gray scores of Russians forth-- Beneath that slaughter wild and grim Nor man nor dog would run; He stood by us, and we by him, Till the great fight was done.

And right throughout the snow and frost He faced both shot and sh.e.l.l; Though unrelieved, he kept his post, And did his duty well.

By death on death the time was stained, By want, disease, despair; Like autumn leaves our army waned, But still the dog was there.

He cheered us through those hours of gloom; We fed him in our dearth; Through him the trench's living tomb Rang loud with reckless mirth; And thus, when peace returned once more, After the city's fall, That veteran home in pride we bore, And loved him, one and all.

With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick, And to old memories clung; The grim ravines we left glared thick With death-stones of the young.

Hands which had patted him lay chill, Voices which called were dumb, And footsteps that he watched for still Never again could come.

Never again; this world of woe Still hurries on so fast; They come not back; 'tis he must go To join them in the past.

There, with brave names and deeds entwined, Which Time may not forget, Young Fusiliers unborn shall find The legend of our pet.

Whilst o'er fresh years and other life Yet in G.o.d's mystic urn The picture of the mighty strife Arises sad and stern-- Blood all in front, behind far shrines With women weeping low, For whom each lost one's fane but s.h.i.+nes, As s.h.i.+nes the moon on snow--

Marked by the medal, his of right, And by his kind, keen face, Under that visionary light Poor Bob shall keep his place; And never may our honored Queen For love and service pay Less brave, less patient, or more mean Than his we mourn today!

FRANCIS DOYLE.

FIDELITY

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern, And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed, Its motions, too, are wild and shy, With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry.

Nor is there anyone in sight, All round, in hollow or on height, Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear.

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below.

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud, And mists that spread the flying shroud, And sunbeams, and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The shepherd stood; then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer, with a sigh, Looks round, to learn the history

From whose abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear!

At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller pa.s.sed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry-- This dog had been through three months' s.p.a.ce A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot Or by his master's side; How nourished here through such long time He knows who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE SHEPHERD DOG OF THE PYRENEES

_Traveler._ Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog.

_Shepherd._ Be not affrighted, madame. Poor Pierrot Will do no harm. I know his voice is gruff, But then, his heart is good.

_Traveler._ Well, call him, then.

I do not like his looks. He's growling now.

_Shepherd._ Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot, He is as good a Christian as myself And does not like a stick.

_Traveler._ Such a fierce look!

And such great teeth!

_Shepherd_. Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!

Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.