A song for the Dog, ay, a song from the heart: Let the sensitive leaf of man's vanity start; But a Song for the Dog shall be merrily troll'd, As the meed of the honest, the fond, and the bold.
Ye heirs to a bright immortality born, Oh! lift not your heads in the triumph of scorn; Take some heed how ye sneer at the cur o'er his bone, Whose good work, fairly weigh'd, might outbalance your own.
Come hither, blind pilgrim, say who is thy guide? No son of proud reason is found at thy side! How is it thou darest, all sightless, to roam, And canst track out the pathway safe back to thy home?
"'Tis my Dog that I trust to," the darken'd one cries, "And he ministers well to my visionless eyes; He leadeth me gently, and heralds my feet Through the world's busy mob and the city's long street.
"Ah! where is another, whose patience and care Would endure so unwearied the task and the fare? 'Tis my Dog that I trust to, and ne'er can I find Such a friend to the palsied, the poor, and the blind."
Rigid-limb'd traveller mounting the peak, With the blood curdling fast in thy heart and thy cheek; Thine eyelids are heavy—thy breathing grows deep, And sleep hath come over thee—terrible sleep.
Who shall discover thy snow-curtain'd bed? Who shall stand up between thee and the dead? Who shall tear off the cold wrap from thy form, And call loudly for help through the shriek of the storm?
It is not man's footstep—that ne'er would have found thee; It is not man's hand—that would ne'er have unbound thee; It is not man's wisdom—his powers had fail'd— 'Tis the Dog that has come where the man would have quail'd.
The lisping child snatches the blossom and brake That spring by the side of the blue-bosom'd lake; Till, heedless with laughter, he slips from the brink, And a horror-struck mother beholdeth him sink.
But hark there's a plunge; a brave diver is out, Whose ready zeal needs no encouraging shout; 'Tis the Newfoundland playmate—the soul-less, the mute, And God's beautiful image is saved by the brute.
There's one that is keeping the wide-scatter'd flock; Now pacing the moorland, now perch'd on the rock; Now quietly watching the lambs at their play; Now arresting the steps that would wander away.
He rules, as all should rule, with merciful peace; He preserveth the sheep, yet he covets no fleece; He is true to his charge when the red sun gets up; He is there when night closes the gold-blazon'd cup.
His master may conjure some love-whisper'd dream; He may rove in the shade—he may rest by the stream— He may pillow his head on the heath-cover'd steep; If the Dog is awake—why, the shepherd may sleep.
"Yoicks! yoicks, tally-ho!" and away rush glad men, Over hill, hedge, and furrow—through copse, dale, and glen; "Hark forward!"—on, on, with a cheer, and a bound; But Man, mighty creature, must trust to the hound.
Up with the barrel, the pheasant is nigh; "Quick, quick, to the shoulder—he rises, let fly;" The bird's in the bag; but who will not confess, 'Twas the nose of old Ponto insured the success?
Weary and lonely the beggar goes by, No warm heart to expect him, no friendly hand nigh; But among all the sorrows that misery deals, We may see the starved Cur ever close at his heels.
The one who for years has been miss'd in his place, May return with strange shadows of time on his face; Friends have forgotten the wandering boy, But the old Dog remembers, and hails him with joy
Then a health to the noble, the honest old Tray; The watchman of night, the companion of day; And a Song for the Dog shall be merrily troll'd As the meed of the faithful, the fond, and the bold.
