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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."
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."
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
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href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@19226@[email protected]#Page_39" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">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
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class="smcap">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
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align="left">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?"
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.
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!
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!
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.
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!
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!
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!
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!
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
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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?"
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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
As good as he can be,
He don't seem like a little dog,
He's just like folks to
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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
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.
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.
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!
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?
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.
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!
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!
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.