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The Dog's Book
of Verse
Collected by
J. Earl Clauson
"'I never barked when out of season;
I never bit without a reason;
I ne'er insulted weaker brother,
Nor wronged by fraud or force another;'
Though brutes are placed a rank below,
Happy for man could he say so."
[Illustration: Crest]
Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1916
BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
TO
THE MEMORY OF
JACK,
AN AIREDALE
PREFACE
Matthew Arnold, explaining why those were his most popular poems
which dealt with his canine pets, Geist, Kaiser, and Max, said
that while comparatively few loved poetry, nearly everyone loved
dogs.
The literature of the Anglo-Saxon is rich in tributes to the
dog, as becomes a race which beyond any other has understood and
developed its four-footed companions. Canine heroes whose
intelligence and faithfulness our prose writers have celebrated
start to the memory in scores--Bill Sykes's white shadow, which
refused to be separated from its master even by death; Rab,
savagely devoted; the immortal Bob, "son of battle"--true souls
all, with hardly a villain among them for artistic contrast.
Even Red Wull, the killer, we admire for his courage and lealty.
Within these covers is a selection from a large body of dog
verse. It is a selection made on the principle of human appeal.
Dialect, and the poems of the earlier writers whose diction
strikes oddly on our modern ears, have for the most part been
omitted. The place of such classics as may be missed is filled
by that vagrant verse which is often most truly the flower of
inspiration.
CONTENTS
PART I
PUPPYHOOD
TITLE AUTHOR PAGE
We Meet at Morn _Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley_ 3
The Lost Puppy _Henry Firth Wood_ 5
A Laugh in Church _Anonymous_ 8
Treasures _Anonymous_ 10
That There Long Dog _Alice Gill Ferguson_ 11
My Friend _Anonymous_ 12
Ted _Maxine Anna Buck_ 14
Little Lost Pup _Anonymous_ 16
My Brindle Bull-Terrier _Coletta Ryan_ 18
Lauth _Robert Burns_ 20
The Drowned Spaniel _Charles Tennyson Turner_ 21
PART II
THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP
Cluny _William Croswell Doane_ 25
The Best Friend _Meribah Abbott_ 26
My Dog and I _Alice J. Chester_ 27
My Gentleman _Anonymous_ 29
The Dead Boy's Portrait and His Dog _Gerald Massey_ 31
Advice to a Dog Painter _Jonathan Swift_ 33
Mercy's Reward _Sir Edwin Arnold_ 34
Beau and the Water Lily _William Cowper_ 37
Petronius _Frederic P. Ladd_ 39
My Dog _Joseph M. Anderson_ 40
Charity's Eye _William Rounseville Alger_ 42
To Blanco _J.G. Holland_ 44
The Ould Hound _Arthur Stringer_ 46
The Miser's Only Friend _George Crabbe_ 48
Poor Dog Tray _Thomas Campbell_ 51
My Comforter _Anonymous_ 53
The Little White Dog _May Ellis Nichols_ 54
The Irish Greyhound _Katherine Phillips_ 55
The Vagabonds _J.T. Trowbridge_ 57
In Cineam _Sir John Davies_ 62
Old Matthew's Dog _Anonymous_ 63
A Dog and a Man _Anonymous_ 67
Rover-Dog _Marie Louise Tompkins_ 68
Horse, Dog and Man _S.E. Kiser_ 70
The Best Dog _Anonymous_ 73
Cæsar, King Edward's Dog _O. Middleton_ 75
Just Our Dog _Anonymous_ 76
Ragged Rover _Leslie Clare Manchester_ 78
To Flush, My Dog _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 80
Frances _Richard Wightman_ 86
To My Setter, Scout _Frank H. Selden_ 88
Why Strik'st Thou Me? _Nathan Haskell Dole_
(_Translator_) 90
Consolation _Howard C. Kegley_ 92
Argus _Alexander Pope_ 93
Chained in the Yard _Anonymous_ 94
Why the Dog's Nose is Cold _Margaret Eytinge_ 95
Dog Language _Marion Hovey Briggs_ 97
A Dog's Loyalty _Anonymous_ 98
PART III
THE DOG IN ACTION
Told to the Missionary _George R. Sims_ 101
The Dog of the Louvre _Ralph Cecil_ 106
The Chase _Lord Somerville_ 109
The Under Dog _Anonymous_ 111
The Shepherd and His Dog _William Lisle Bowles_ 112
Beth Gelert _William Robert Spencer_ 113
The Flag and the Faithful _William J. Lampton_ 117
A Guardian at the Gate _John Clare_ 118
A Tale of the Reign of Terror _Caroline Bowles Southey_ 119
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog _Oliver Goldsmith_ 126
The Fusiliers' Dog _Francis Doyle_ 128
Fidelity _William Wordsworth_ 131
The Shepherd Dog of the Pyrenees _Ellen Murray_ 134
The Dog Under the Wagon _Anonymous_ 137
Sal's Towser and My Trouser _Anonymous_ 139
Rover in Church _James Buckham_ 141
PART IV
THE DOG'S HEREAFTER
Billy _Lorenzo Sears_ 145
The Bond _George H. Nettle_ 147
To a Dog _Anonymous_ 148
Canine Immortality _Robert Southey_ 150
A Friendly Welcome _Lord Byron_ 152
Exemplary Nick _Sydney Smith_ 153
The Difference _Anonymous_ 154
Laddie _Katherine Lee Bates_ 155
A Dog's Epitaph _Lord Byron_ 157
The Passing of a Dog _Anonymous_ 159
My Dog _Anonymous_ 160
Jack _H.P.W._ 161
In Memory of "Don" _M.S.W._ 162
Roderick Dhu _Helen Fitzgerald Sanders_ 164
Questions _William Hurrell Mallock_ 166
His Epitaph _William Watson_ 167
In Memoriam _Henry Willett_ 168
Questions _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 170
Our Dog Jock _James Payn_ 171
Tory, a Puppy _Mortimer Collins_ 172
On an Irish Retriever _Fanny Kemble Butler_ 173
A Retriever's Epitaph _Robert C. Lehmann_ 174
PART I
PUPPYHOOD
_"What other nature yours than of a child
Whose dumbness finds a voice mighty to call,
In wordless pity, to the souls of all,
Whose lives I turn to profit, and whose mute
And constant friendship links the man and brute?"_
THE DOG'S BOOK OF VERSE
WE MEET AT MORN
Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear
A patter coming nearer and more near,
And then upon my chamber door
A gentle tapping,
For dogs, though proud, are poor,
And if a tail will do to give command
Why use a hand?
And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping,
And next a scuffle on the passage floor,
And then I know the creature lies to watch
Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch.
And like a spring
That gains its power by being tightly stayed,
The impatient thing
Into the room
Its whole glad heart doth fling,
And ere the gloom
Melts into light, and window blinds are rolled,
I hear a bounce upon the bed,
I feel a creeping toward me--a soft head,
And on my face
A tender nose, and cold--
This is the way, you know, that dogs embrace--
And on my hand, like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung,
The least faint flicker of the warmest tongue
--And so my dog and I have met and sworn
Fresh love and fealty for another morn.
HARDWICKE DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.
THE LOST PUPPY
Say! little pup,
What's up?
Your tail is down
And out of sight
Between your legs;
Why, that ain't right.
Little pup,
Brace up!
Say! little pup,
Look up!
Don't hang your head
And look so sad,
You're all mussed up,
But you ain't mad.
Little pup,
Cheer up!
Say! little pup,
Stir up!
Is that a string
Around your tail?
And was it fast
To a tin pail?
Little pup,
Git up.
Say! little pup,
Talk up.
Were those bad boys
All after you,
With sticks and stones,
And tin cans, too?
Little pup,
Speak up!
Say! little pup,
Stand up!
Let's look at you;
You'd be all right
If you was scrubbed
And shined up bright.
Little pup,
Jump up!
Say! little pup,
Bark up!
Let's hear your voice.
Say, you're a brick!
Now try to beg
And do a trick.
Little pup,
Sit up!
Say! little pup,
Chime up!
Why, you can sing--
Now come with me;
Let's wash and eat
And then we'll see,
Little pup,
What's up!
HENRY FIRTH WOOD.
A LAUGH IN CHURCH
She sat on the sliding cushion,
The dear, wee woman of four;
Her feet, in their shiny slippers,
Hung dangling over the floor.
She meant to be good; she had promised,
And so with her big, brown eyes,
She stared at the meetinghouse windows
And counted the crawling flies.
She looked far up at the preacher,
But she thought of the honeybees
Droning away at the blossoms
That whitened the cherry trees.
She thought of a broken basket,
Where curled in a dusky heap,
Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears.
Lay snuggled and fast asleep.
Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle,
Such queer little hearts to beat,
Such swift round tongues to kiss,
Such sprawling, cushiony feet;
She could feel in her clasping fingers
The touch of the satiny skin,
And a cold, wet nose exploring
The dimples under her chin.
Then a sudden ripple of laughter
Ran over the parted lips
So quick that she could not catch it
With her rosy finger-tips.
The people whispered "Bless the child,"
As each one waked from a nap,
But the dear, wee woman hid her face
For shame in her mother's lap.
ANONYMOUS.
TREASURES
They got a bran' new baby
At Bud Hicks' house, you see.
You'd think Bud Hicks had somethin'
The way he talks to me!
He comes around a-braggin',
An' when he wouldn't quit
I said: "What good's a baby?
You can't hunt fleas on it."
Then Bud turned to me an' told me
How loud that kid could yell,
An' lots I can't remember,
He had so much to tell.
But I got tired o' hearin'
An' so I ast him, quick,
"If you wuz in a-swimmin'
Could it go get a stick?"
There is no use a-talkin',
Bud thinks their baby's fine!
Huh! I'd a whole lot rather
Jest have a pup like mine.
I'll bet it's not bald-headed!
But if Bud doesn't fail
To let me hear it yellin',
I'll let him pull Spot's tail.
ANONYMOUS.
THAT THERE LONG DOG
Funniest little feller
You'd ever want to see!
Browner 'an the brownest leaf
In the autumn tree.
Shortest little bow legs!
Jes' barely touch the floor--
And long--b'gosh, the longest dog
I ever seen afore!
But he's mighty amusin',
For all 'at he's so queer,
Eyes so mighty solemn,
Askin' like an' clear,
And when he puts his paws up,
Head stuck on one side--
Jes' naturally love every hair
In his durn Dutch hide.
ALICE GILL FERGUSON.
MY FRIEND
True and trustful, never doubting,
Is my young and handsome friend;
Always jolly,
Full of fun,
Bright eyes gleaming
Like the sun--
Never see him blue or pouting
From the day's break to its end.
Whether I am "flush" or "busted"
Makes no difference to him!
"Let's be gay, sir"--
He would say, sir--
"Won't have any
Other way, sir!"
Oh, he's never cross and crusted--
Light of heart and full of vim!
Often we go out together
For a ramble far and wide--
Catch the breezes
Fresh and strong
Down the mountain
Swept along--
For we never mind the weather
When we two are side by side.
But my friend is sometimes quiet,
And I've caught his clear brown eye
Gazing at me,
Mute, appealing--
Telling something,
Yet concealing,
Yes, he'd like to talk! Well, try it--
"Bow, wow, wow," and that's his cry!
ANONYMOUS.
TED
I have a little brindle dog,
Seal-brown from tail to head.
His name I guess is Theodore,
But I just call him Ted.
He's only eight months old to-day
I guess he's just a pup;
Pa says he won't be larger
When he is all grown up.
He plays around about the house,
As good as he can be,
He don't seem like a little dog,
He's just like folks to me.
And when it is my bed-time,
Ma opens up the bed;
Then I nestle down real cozy
And just make room for Ted
And oh, how nice we cuddle!
He doesn't fuss or bite,
Just nestles closely up to me
And lays there still all night.
We love each other dearly,
My little Ted and me.
We're just good chums together,
And always hope to be.
MAXINE ANNA BUCK.
LITTLE LOST PUP
He was lost!--Not a shade of doubt of that;
For he never barked at a slinking cat,
But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,
With a drooping ear, and a trembling paw,
And a mournful look in his pleading eye,
And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by
That begged as plain as a tongue could sue,
"Oh, Mister, please may I follow you?"
A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown
Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in!
Well, he won my heart (for I set great store
On my own red Bute, who is here no more)
So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,
And who so glad as that small lost pup?
Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,
And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.
Then if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,
And the world is cold, and I'm feeling blue,
He asserts his right to assuage my woes
With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose,
And a silky head on my arm or knee,
And a paw as soft as a paw can be.
When we rove the woods for a league about
He's as full of pranks as a school let out;
For he romps and frisks like a three-months colt,
And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt.
Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair
Is a gay little pup with his tail in air!
ANONYMOUS.
MY BRINDLE BULL-TERRIER
My brindle bull-terrier, loving and wise,
With his little screw-tail and his wonderful eyes,
With his white little breast and his white little paws
Which, alas! he mistakes very often for claws;
With his sad little gait as he comes from the fight
When he feels that he hasn't done all that he might;
Oh, so fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog,
My near little, queer little, dear little dog!
He shivers and shivers and shakes with the cold;
He huddles and cuddles, though three summers old.
And forsaking the sunshine, endeavors to rove
With his cold little worriments under the stove!
At table, his majesty, dying for meat,--
Yet never despising a lump that is sweet,--
Sits close by my side with his head on my knee
And steals every good resolution from me!
How can I withhold from those worshipping eyes
A small bit of something that stealthily flies
Down under the table and into his mouth
As I tell my dear neighbor of life in the South.
My near little, queer little, dear little dog,
So fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog!
The nearest and queerest and dearest of all
The race that is loving and winning and small;
The sweetest, most faithful, the truest and best
Dispenser of merriment, love and unrest!
COLETTA RYAN.
LAUTH
He was a gash and faithfu' tyke
As ever lapt a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sawnsie, bawsint face
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towsie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black.
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung ower his hurdies wi' a swurl.
ROBERT BURNS.
THE DROWNED SPANIEL
The day-long bluster of the storm was o'er,
The sands were bright; the winds had fallen asleep,
And, from the far horizon, o'er the deep
The sunset swam unshadowed to the shore.
High up, the rainbow had not passed away,
When, roving o'er the shingle beach, I found
A little waif, a spaniel newly drowned;
The shining waters kissed him as he lay.
In some kind heart thy gentle memory dwells,
I said, and, though thy latest aspect tells
Of drowning pains and mortal agony,
Thy master's self might weep and smile to see
His little dog stretched on these rosy shells,
Betwixt the rainbow and the rosy sea.
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.