Dogs barking, dust awhirling,
And drum throbs in the street.
The braggart pipes are skirling
An old tune wild and sweet.

By fours the lads come trooping
With heads erect and high,
I watch with heart adrooping
To see the kilties by.

And one of them is glancing
Up to this window, this!
His brave blue eyes are dancing;
He tosses me a kiss.

I send him back another,
I fling my hand out free.
" God keep you safely, brother,
Who go to die for me. "

The dog is man's best friend.
He has a tail on one end.
Up in front he has teeth.
And four legs underneath.

Dogs like to bark.
They like it best after dark.
They not only frighten prowlers away
But also hold the sandman at bay.

A dog that is indoors
To be let out implores.
You let him out and what then?
He wants back in again.

Dogs display reluctance and wrath
If you try to give them a bath.
They bury bones in hideaways
And half the time they trot sideways.

Dogs in the country have fun.

Does it matter? — losing your legs? . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter? — losing your sight? . . .
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light:

Do they matter? — those dreams from the pit? . . .
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;

The dodder twines around the huang-po tree,
sharing with it the mist and rain.
But the tree's branches and leaves are rooted:
the dodder alone encounters a bitter fate.

The marriage occurred at an auspicious time;
a magpie carried a plum branch in its beak.
Everybody said, " The bride is beautiful! "
The go-betweens enjoyed their glory.

As broths and roasts were cooking in the kitchen,
in the hall calamity approached!
Just as the go-betweens were sent off to the west,
from the east, the doctor was ushered in.

Do your days seem long, your pleasures few;
You have more griefs than your neighbors do;
The skies always cloudy, and never blue?
Friend, go to God; He cares for you.

Your every task, they seem so long;
You try to do right, but it turns out wrong;
There's never room in your heart for a song,
Friend, go to Jesus; His arm is strong.

You smile as you start a brand-new day;
But after awhile the smile goes away;
Everything goes, but the grief seems to stay.
Friend, go to God, when you feel that way.

Do you think of me at all,
Wistful ones?
Do you think of me at all
As if nigh?
Do you think of me at all
At the creep of evenfall,
Or when the sky-birds call
As they fly?

Do you look for me at times,
Wistful ones?
Do you look for me at times
Strained and still?
Do you look for me at times,
When the hour for walking chimes,
On that grassy path that climbs
Up the hill?

You may hear a jump or trot,
Wistful ones,
You may hear a jump or trot —
Mine, as 'twere —

Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare, the carpenter,
Godfearing and bearded Mr. Goodbeare,
Who worked all day
At his carpenter's tray,
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare?
Mr. Goodbeare, that Golconda of gleaming fable,
Lived thin-ground between orchard and stable,
Pressed thus close against Alfred, his rival —
Mr. Goodbeare, who had never been away.

Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare,
Mr. Goodbeare, who never touched a cup?
Do you remember Mr. Goodbeare,
Who remembered a lot?
Mr. Goodbeare could remember

Do you remember
That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon!--
When, as the kirks were ringing in,
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and aspects,
Lewis--our Lewis then,
Now the whole world's--and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with Balzacs
(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),
The first of many times
To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries--
Or years is it!--ago?

Dear Charles, since then
We have been friends, Lewis and you and I,

Do you not see the Christmas star,
— The star that walks on high?
Or is the firmament, for you,
— But dark and empty sky?

Do you not hear the angels sing,
— In lucent glory shod?
Who loves a lie can hear them not,
— Nor see the Word of God.

How can the rapture that we know
— Your sluggard hearts enthrall,
Who mark but fodder in the crib,
— But oxen in the stall?

All through the midnight watch the star
— Still paces out the sky.
Do you not see the Christmas star
— That we are guided by?

"Do you not hear the aziola cry?
Methinks she must be nigh--'
Said Mary as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit or candles brought--
And I who thought
This Aziola was some tedious woman
Asked, "Who is Aziola?'--how elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate!
And Mary saw my soul,
And laughed and said--"Disquiet yourself not,
'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.'
Sad aziola, many an eventide
Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountainside,
And fields and marshes wide,