There are three kinds of spiritual beings: men, dogs, and cats. Men are supreme, and made both dogs and cats. Dogs were created for happiness, and cats for misery. We are the good race, and they are the evil. It is the duty of a dog to kill a cat. Then hate cats, and hang them up by the tails in the back garden. If I am a bad dog, I shall be turned into a cat, and hung up by my tail. Cats are fed on black beetles; but men are very happy, and eat bones all day long. I eat a bone when I can get one; which makes me think that I shall some day be turned into a man. When I am, I shall hang up cats by the tails.
Of created beings dogs are the only ones who have souls. There is a heaven for dogs, but for no one else. There are no cats in heaven; and for that matter, very few dogs; but I hope to be one of them; for there the dogs have meaty bones, and bark all day long, making sweet music. This is the Dogs’ creed. All who believe it will go to Bone-land; and all who do not, will be hung up with the cats in the back garden.
UNDER the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Our work is wrought; Fashion’d strong with every sturdy stroke That does wild music from the roofs provoke In echoes brought. A rare bold sport Rather than labour stern, or blunting task; A toil to ask Not blench from. Merrily round the fire We work our will, Producing still Some new form daily to our hearts’ desire.
Delicate iron bands That, as with fairy hands, Heavenward aspire To carry roofs, sun pierced and ever gleaming, Wherein the varied race Of fruit or flowers finds place, While the weak Northern rays through mist are streaming.
Or lofty gate Of palace or of temple set apart; The hallowed gaols of art, Where low estate Is never welcome; ever warmly bidden To enter and abide. Far better hidden Life’s earnest prime behind the factory gate. Always the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Is overhead, Like floating incense looming through the sky, It tells the prayer of work goes on hard by Where zeal new energies of life evokes; While iron red From earthy bed Blackens to use beneath the smith’s firm strokes.
Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Our lot is laid. Our ever-flaming altar spreads on high This great scroll as a witness in the sky Of effort made. Here, rare workmanship, we, day by day, Strive to display, Not heeding if our work make weal or woe. We do our best, Ye will the rest, To meet whose wants me make our furnace glow.