Classic Poem

Some venal bards indite the lay
To such themes only as will pay ;
Some, fawning round a patron, play
Self-praising airs; —
Since " every dog must have his day,"
These must have theirs.

For me, friend of my boyhood's days,
Grown gray in following my ways,
Though surely not a theme for lays
Of lofty chime,
I 'll give thee all the hearty praise
Of dog -rel rhyme.

Though old, decrepit, deaf and blind,
I can look back and call to mind
The days when one might search and find,
The county through,
No dog more trusty, true and kind,
Old Beau , than you!

Few dogs your aptness have outdone;
You knew all tackle of the gun;
Ball, pouch, or horn shown you, each one
A whine exacted;
The gun itself would make you run
Almost distracted.

When hunting, if no luck had we,
Though famous your veracity,
I've known you feign some game to " tree,"
And coolly bark,
When fancy even could not see
Aught for a mark.

Whene'er with rod and line and hook
I strayed a fishing down the brook,
You crept behind with knowing look,
And watched the line;
And when the spangled trout I took,
My joy was thine.

When furry game my notice drew,
Low by the bank where alders grew
I set the trap wherever you
Appeared most willing,
And in the morning well I knew
I'd make a shilling.

And when the corn we gathered in,
Turning the stooks with rustling din,
The rat, o'ertaken in his sin,
Paid dear for stealing;
One shake, and he with ragged skin,
Was past all feeling.

Your strength and courage balanced well,
Though sometimes you would whine and yell
When 'mongst bad company you fell,
Like honest Tray, —
Till I " maun interfere mysel",
As Burns would say.

For your repute I 've been afraid
When you some prank of folly play'd,
Or when, by way of serenade,
In dog-day weather,
The distant moon you 've idly bayed,
For hours together.

Some few of all your tricks were vile,
But these showed frankness without guile;
And yet with modesty meanwhile
You ne'er was gifted;
E'en Sundays, in the church broad-isle,
The leg you 've lifted.

With other dogs you 'd hold a caucus,
And snuff and growl and raise a fracas,
Till kicked by him who acted Janus
From out the meeting;
For sore with laughter it did shake us
To see your greeting.

Your share of ills you 've had to bide;
You wear a bullet in your side,
And many scars that seam your hide
Your conflicts tell;
Some sort of colic once you tried
Sorely, but well.

You 've something like the asthma, too;
But few more ills will trouble you;
With life you 've gotten nearly through,
Its joy and pain;
Of all your puppy brethren few
Or none remain.

But never shall I want a friend
As long as you can snuff the wind;
And when your honest life shall end,
My ancient brave,
Yonder, where purple poke-weeds bend,
Shall be your grave.

And when, from hunting, passing by
Your resting-place, I 'll linger nigh;
The thundering volley where you lie
Shall tell your spirit
That still your master has an eye
To all your merit.