Rover (Kendall)

by Thomas Henry Kendall

No classic warrior tempts my pen
   To fill with verse these pages –
No lordly-hearted man of men
   My Muse's thought engages.

Let others choose the mighty dead,
   And sing their battles over!
My champion, too, has fought and bled –
   My theme is one-eyed Rover.

A grave old dog, with tattered ears
   Too sore to cock up, reader! –
A four-legged hero, full of years,
   But sturdy as a cedar.

Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
   Is dashed with words pathetic,
Don't wonder, friend; I've seen the time
   When Rove was more athletic.

He lies coiled up before me now,
   A comfortable crescent.
His night-black nose and grizzled brow
   Fixed in a fashion pleasant.

But ever and anon he lifts
   The one good eye I mention,
And tries a thousand doggish shifts
   To rivet my attention.

Just let me name his name, and up
   You'll see him start and patter
Towards me, like a six-months' pup
   In point of speed, but fatter.

He pokes his head upon my lap,
   Nor heeds the whip above him;
Because he knows, the dear old chap,
   His human friends all love him.

Our younger dogs cut off from hence
   At sight of lash uplifted;
But Rove, with grand indifference,
   Remains, and can't be shifted.

And, ah! the set upon his phiz
   At meals defies expression;
For I confess that Rover is
   A cadger by profession.

The lesser favourites of the place
   At dinner keep their distance;
But by my chair one grizzled face
   Begs on with brave persistence.

His jaws present a toothless sight,
   But still my hearty hero
Can satisfy an appetite
   Which brings a bone to zero.

And while Spot barks and pussy mews,
   To move the cook's compassion,
He takes his after-dinner snooze
   In genuine biped fashion.

In fact, in this, our ancient pet
   So hits off human nature,
That I at times almost forget
   He's but a dog in feature.

Between his tail and bright old eye
   The swift communications
Outstrip the messages which fly
   From telegraphic stations.

And, ah! that tail's rich eloquence
   Conveys too clear a moral,
For men who have a grain of sense
   About its drift to quarrel.

At night, his voice is only heard
   When it is wanted badly;
For Rover is too cute a bird
   To follow shadows madly.

The pup and Carlo in the dark
   Will start at crickets chirring;
But when we hear the old dog bark
   We know there's something stirring.

He knows a gun, does Rover here;
   And if I cock a trigger,
He makes himself from tail to ear
   An admirable figure.

For, once the fowling piece is out,
   And game is on the tapis,
The set upon my hero's snout
   Would make a cockle happy.

And as for horses, why, betwixt
   Our chestnut mare and Rover
The mutual friendship is as fixed
   As any love of lover.

And when his master's hand resigns
   The bridle for the paddle,
His dogship on the grass reclines,
   And stays and minds the saddle.

Of other friends he has no lack;
   Grey pussy is his crony,
And kittens mount upon his back,
   As youngsters mount a pony.

They talk of man's superior sense,
   And charge the few with treason
Who think a dog's intelligence
   Is very like our reason.

But though Philosophy has tried
   A score of definitions,
'Twixt man and dog it can't decide
   The relative positions.

And I believe upon the whole
   (Though you my creed deny, sir),
That Rove's entitled to a soul
   As much as you or I, sir!

Indeed, I fail to see the force
   Of your derisive laughter
Because I will not say my horse
   Has not some horse-hereafter.

A fig for dogmas – let them pass!
   There's much in life to grieve us;
And what most grieves is this, alas!
   That all our best friends leave us.

And when I sip my nightly grog,
   And watch old Rover blinking,
This royal ruin of a dog
   Calls forth some serious thinking.

For, though he's lightly touched by Fate,
   I cannot help remarking
The step of age is in his gait,
   Its hoarseness in his barking.

He still goes on his rounds at night
   To keep off forest prowlers;
But, ah! he has no teeth to bite
   The cunning-hearted howlers.

Not like the Rover that, erewhile,
   Gave droves of dingoes battle,
And dashed through flood and fierce defile –
   The friend, but dread, of cattle.

Not like to him that, in past years,
   Won fight by fight, and scattered
Whole tribes of dogs with rags of ears
   And tail-ends torn and tattered.

But while time tells upon our pet,
   And makes him greyer daily,
He is a noble fellow yet,
   And wears his old age gaily.

Still, dogs must die; and in the end,
   When he is past caressing,
We'll mourn him like some human friend
   Whose presence was a blessing.

Till then, be bread and peace his lot –
   A life of calm and clover!
The pup may sleep outside with Spot –
   We'll keep the nook for Rover.