Poems (Sewell)/The Peasant to his Dog

by Mary Young Sewell

THE PEASANT TO HIS DOG, OCCASIONED BY A RUMOUR OF THE DOG TAX, In April, 1796.

My faithful Dog! and must we part,
 In life's declining day,
So old and constant as thou art,
 And like thy master, grey?

Poor humble partner of my lot,
 With mild beseeching eye,
I thought, beneath my wretched cot,
 The great might let thee lie!

Small are thy wishes, small thy needs,
 And coarse thy scanty fare,
But more, alas! tho' Mercy pleads,
 Thy master cannot spare!

Meek watcher of my humble store,
 Thy merits all I own,
And hear thy welcome at my door,
 And hear thy parting moan!

I hear'd thy shrill, indignant bark,
 When worthless paupers came,
Too fierce and honest in the dark.
 For any bribes to tame!

As once I slumber'd on the heath,
 A ruffian sought the way,
Then didst thou rouze my ear from death,
 And turn his steps away.

When dawn of day wou'd softly peep,
 It was thy practice still,
To wake thy master from his sleep,
 To climb the neigh'bring hill.

'Twas something, in the woes of life,
 Depriv'd of friends most dear—
'Twas something in this world of strife!
 To find a Dog sincere!

Ah! little can the poor man shew,
 His heavy hours to bless!
May Heaven forgive the cruel foe,
 Who makes that little less!

Perchance, 'tis Rumour's busy voice,
 Alarms my fearful breast;
For Grandeur, sure, wou'd scorn the choice,
 To rob a poor man's rest!

A heart, where Charity excells,
 Has deign'd our cause to plead—
Bless'd be the owner where it dwells,
 And blest the gen'rous deed!

But oh! if still the die be cast,
 My Dog! I'll not repine,
For Death must be thy lot at last,
 And Heaven will pity mine!