The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Dog's Book of Verse, collected by J. Earl Clauson.

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' bitch, 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 bitch, 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 shore,
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 bitch.

'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 bitch.'

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 ashore;
And my head was queer and dizzy, but I see as the bitch 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 bitch!

THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE

With gentle tread, with uncovered head,
Pass by the Louvre gate,
Where buried lie the "men of July,"
And flowers are hung by the passers-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,
Shaggy 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 passer-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 passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.

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.

THE UNDER DOG

I know that the world, the great big world,
Will never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault,
But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me, I shall never pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right,
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG

My dog and I are both grown old;
On these wild downs we watch all day;
He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
And thus methinks I hear him say:

The gray stone circlet is below,
The village smoke is at our feet;
We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
And wandering flocks that roam and bleat.

Far off, the early horseman hies,
In shower or sunshine rushing on;
Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
The distant coach is seen and gone.

Though solitude around is spread,
Master, alone thou shalt not be;
And when the turf is on thy head,
I only shall remember thee.

I marked his look of faithful care,
I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
"There is a sun that shines above,
A sun that shines on both," I cried.

BETH GELERT

The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn:

And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:
"Come, Gelert! Why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"

In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John,
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.

And now, as over rocks and dells,
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.

That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare,
And small and scant the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to meet.

But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gelert, too,
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around, the walls and ground,
With recent blood besprent.

He called the child—no voice replied;
He searched, with terror wild;
Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!

"Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart,
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell
To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead—
Tremendous still in death.

Ah! What was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked,
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved!
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear,
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

THE FLAG AND THE FAITHFUL

Ah, Muggsie, good and faithful dog,
Gone to your rest!
You served your country and your flag
The very best
That lay within your humble power,
And in that far
Have been much better than some men
And women are.
As you had lived, good dog, you died,
And it is meet
The flag you served your best should be
Your winding sheet.

A GUARDIAN AT THE GATE

The dog beside the threshold lies,
Mocking sleep with half-shut eyes—
With head crouched down upon his feet,
Till strangers pass his sunny seat—
Then quick he pricks his ears to hark
And bustles up to growl and bark;
While boys in fear stop short their song,
And sneak in startled speed along;
And beggar, creeping like a snail,
To make his hungry hopes prevail
O'er the warm heart of charity,
Leaves his lame halt and hastens by.

A TALE OF THE REIGN OF TERROR

'Twas in a neighboring land what time
The Reign of Terror triumphed there,
And every horrid shape of crime
Stalked out from murder's bloody lair.

'Twas in those dreadful times there dwelt
In Lyons, the defiled with blood,
A loyal family that felt
The earliest fury of the flood.

Wife, children, friends, it swept away
From wretched Valrive, one by one,
Himself severely doomed to stay
Till everything he loved was gone.

A man proscribed, whom not to shun
Was danger, almost fate, to brave,
So all forsook him, all save one—
One faithful, humble, powerless slave.

His dog, old Nina. She had been,
When they were boys, his children's mate,
His gallant Claude, his mild Eugene,
Both gone before him to their fate.

They spurned her off—but evermore,
Surmounting e'en her timid nature,
Love brought her to the prison door,
And there she crouched, fond, faithful creature!

Watching so long, so piteously,
That e'en the jailor—man of guilt,
Of rugged heart—was moved to cry,
"Poor wretch, there enter if thou wilt."

And who than Nina more content
When she had gained that dreary cell
Where lay in helpless dreariment
The master loved so long and well?

And when into his arms she leapt
In her old fond, familiar way,
And close into his bosom crept,
And licked his face—a feeble ray

Of something—not yet comfort—stole
Upon his heart's stern misery,
And his lips moved, "Poor loving fool!
Then all have not abandoned me."

The hour by grudging kindness spared
Expired too soon—the friends must part—
And Nina from the prison gazed,
With lingering pace and heavy heart.

Shelter, and rest, and food she found
With one who, for the master's sake,
Though grim suspicion stalked around,
Dared his old servant home to take.

Beneath that friendly roof, each night
She stayed, but still returning day—
Ay, the first beam of dawning light
Beheld her on her anxious way.

Towards the prison, there to await
The hour when through that dismal door
The keeper, half compassionate,
Should bid her enter as before.

And well she seemed to comprehend
The time appointed for her stay,
The little hour that with her friend
She tarried there was all her day.

At last the captive's summons came;
They led him forth his doom to hear;
No tremor shook his thrice-nerved frame
Whose heart was dead to hope and fear.

So with calm step he moved along,
And calmly faced the murderous crew,
But close and closer for the throng,
Poor Nina to her master drew.

And she has found a resting place
Between his knees—her old safe home—
And she looks round in every face
As if to read his written doom.

'Twas but a step in those dread days
From trial to the guillotine;
A moment, and Valrive surveys
With steadfast eye the fell machine.

He mounts the platform, takes his stand
Before the fatal block, and kneels
In preparation—but his hand
A soft warm touch that moment feels.

His eyes glance downward, and a tear—
The last tear they shall ever shed—
Falls as he utters, "Thou still here!"
Upon his faithful servant's head.

Yes, she is there; that hellish shout,
That deadly stroke, she hears them plain,
And from the headless trunk starts out
Even over her the bloody rain.

Old faithful Nina! There lies she,
Her cold head on the cold earth pressed,
As it was wont so lovingly
To lie upon her master's breast.

And there she stayed the livelong day,
Mute, motionless, her sad watch keeping;
A stranger who had passed that way
Would have believed her dead or sleeping.

But if a step approached the grave
Her eye looked up with jealous care,
Imploringly, as if to crave
That no rude foot should trample there.

That night she came not, as of late,
To her old, charitable home;
The next day's sun arose and set,
Night fell—and still she failed to come.

Then the third day her pitying host
Went kindly forth to seek his guest,
And found her at her mournful post,
Stretched quietly as if at rest.

Yet she was not asleep nor dead,
And when her master's friend she saw,
The poor old creature raised her head,
And moaned, and moved one feeble paw.

But stirred not thence—and all in vain
He called, caressed her, would have led—
Tried threats—then coaxing words again—
Brought food—she turned away her head.

So with kind violence at last
He bore her home with gentle care;
In her old shelter tied her fast,
Placed food beside and left her there.

But ere the hour of rest, again
He visited the captive's shed,
And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain—
The food untasted—she was fled.

And, vexed, he cried, "Perverse old creature!
Well, let her go. I've done my best."
But there was something in his nature,
A feeling that would not let him rest.

So with the early light once more
Toward the burial ground went he;
And there he found her as before,
But not, as then, stretched quietly.

For she had worked the long night through,
In the strong impulse of despair,
Down, down into the grave—and now,
Panting and weak, still laboured there.

But death's cold, stiffening frost benumbs
Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye—
And hark! her feeble moan becomes
A shriek of human agony.

As if before her task was over
She feared to die in her despair.
But see! those last faint strokes uncover
A straggling lock of thin grey hair.

One struggle, one convulsive start,
And there the face beloved lies—
Now be at peace, thou faithful heart!
She licks the livid lips, and dies.

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 godly 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.

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 shell;
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 God'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 shines,
As shines 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!

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 passed 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' space
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.

A DOG'S LOYALTY

PART III

THE DOG IN ACTION

TOLD TO THE MISSIONARY