Rover
No classic warrior tempts my penTo fill with verse these pages—No lordly-hearted man of menMy 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 earsToo sore to cock up, reader!—A four-legged hero, full of years,But sturdy as a cedar.
Still, age is age; and if my rhymeIs dashed with words pathetic,Don’t wonder, friend; I’ve seen the timeWhen Rove was more athletic.
He lies coiled up before me now,A comfortable crescent.His night-black nose and grizzled browFixed in a fashion pleasant.
But ever and anon he liftsThe one good eye I mention,And tries a thousand doggish shiftsTo rivet my attention.
Just let me name his name, and upYou’ll see him start and patterTowards me, like a six-months’ pupIn 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 henceAt sight of lash uplifted;But Rove, with grand indifference,Remains, and can’t be shifted.
And, ah! the set upon his phizAt meals defies expression;For I confess that Rover isA cadger by profession.
The lesser favourites of the placeAt dinner keep their distance;But by my chair one grizzled faceBegs on with brave persistence.
His jaws present a toothless sight,But still my hearty heroCan satisfy an appetiteWhich brings a bone to zero.
And while Spot barks and pussy mews,To move the cook’s compassion,He takes his after-dinner snoozeIn genuine biped fashion.
In fact, in this, our ancient petSo hits off human nature,That I at times almost forgetHe’s but a dog in feature.
Between his tail and bright old eyeThe swift communicationsOutstrip the messages which flyFrom telegraphic stations.
And, ah! that tail’s rich eloquenceConveys too clear a moral,For men who have a grain of senseAbout its drift to quarrel.
At night, his voice is only heardWhen it is wanted badly;For Rover is too cute a birdTo follow shadows madly.
The pup and Carlo in the darkWill start at crickets chirring;But when we hear the old dog barkWe know there’s something stirring.
He knows a gun, does Rover here;And if I cock a trigger,He makes himself from tail to earAn admirable figure.
For, once the fowling piece is out,And game is on the tapis,The set upon my hero’s snoutWould make a cockle happy.
And as for horses, why, betwixtOur chestnut mare and RoverThe mutual friendship is as fixedAs any love of lover.
And when his master’s hand resignsThe 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 treasonWho think a dog’s intelligenceIs very like our reason.
But though Philosophy has triedA score of definitions,‘Twixt man and dog it can’t decideThe relative positions.
And I believe upon the whole(Though you my creed deny, sir),That Rove’s entitled to a soulAs much as you or I, sir!
Indeed, I fail to see the forceOf your derisive laughterBecause I will not say my horseHas 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 dogCalls forth some serious thinking.
For, though he’s lightly touched by Fate,I cannot help remarkingThe step of age is in his gait,Its hoarseness in his barking.
He still goes on his rounds at nightTo keep off forest prowlers;But, ah! he has no teeth to biteThe 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 scatteredWhole tribes of dogs with rags of earsAnd 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 friendWhose 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.