I miss the eyes that, watching, sued; I miss her tongue of gratitude That licked my hand, in loving mood, When we divided cup or food.
I miss the pertinacious scratch (Continued till I raised the latch Each morning), waiting at my door; Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more.
"What folly!" hints the cynic mind, "Plenty of dogs are left behind To snap and snarl, to bark and bite, And wake us in the gloomy night.
"You should have sought a human friend, Whose life eternal ne'er could end-- Whose gifts of intellect and grace Bereavement never could efface."
Plenty of snarling things are left, But I am of a friend bereft; I seek not intellect, but heart-- 'Tis not my head that feels the smart.
While loving sympathy is cherished, While gratitude is not quite perished; While patient, hopeful, cheerful meeting At our return is pleasant greeting;
So long my heart will feel a void-- Grieving, my mind will be employed-- When I, returning to my door, Shall miss what I shall find no more.
When we, at last, shall pass away, And see no more the light of day, Will many hearts as vacant mourn-- As truly wish for our return?
Yet love that's true will ever know The pain of parting. Better so! "Better to love and lose" than cold, And colder still, let hearts grow old.
So let the cynic snarl or smile, And his great intellect beguile; My little dog, so true to me, Will dear to heart and memory be.
Is there not something in the pleading eye Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns The law that bids it suffer? Has it not A claim for some remembrance in the book That fills its pages with the idle words Spoken of man? Or is it only clay, Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, Yet all his own to treat it as he will, And when he will to cast it at his feet, Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore? My dog loves me, but could he look beyond His earthly master, would his love extend To Him who--hush! I will not doubt that He Is better than our fears, and will not wrong The least, the meanest of created things.
A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old cock As ever did nothing was our dog Jock; A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast, As slow at a fight as swift at a feast; A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail, One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail, When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim, And his course of bark could not strengthen him. Never more now shall our knees be pressed By his dear old chops in their slobbery rest, Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks, As wise, and as dull, as divinity books. Our old friend's dead, but we all well know He's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go, Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be, And his old head never need turn for a flea.