MY CANINE.

“If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.”
Shakespeare.
Some fond poets sing of their lady-love’s eyes,
Or lovers who sail the seas over;
But poet-like I shall gaze up at the skies,
And muse of my little dog Rover.
The canine I sing, to disease is a prey;
The mange, the distemper, and flea,
Have all had their turn, and have worn him away;
His shadow you scarcely can see.
From earliest light, until late in the night,
He’s dodging hot water and sticks;
I’m shamed to confess it, but truth I must write,
He’s a foot-ball that every one kicks.
I hear his thin cry, and his frightened “ki-yi,”
Almost any hour of the day;
And Bridget’s “Bad ’cess to the likes of your Skye,
Sure he’s here, and he’s there like a flay.”
Upon his poor body the hair has all died,
’Tis smooth and as bare as your hand;
I vow I believe there’s no life in his hide,
It looks just as if it were tanned.
His blood is so thin that he never is warm,
And keenly he feels the cold weather;
He shivering stands with tail end to the storm,
And his four feet all huddled together.
He suffers sad woe, as his body doth show,
His face bears a hopeless expression;
He seems to be wondering why he’s a foe,
Who never commits a transgression.
He’s only a dog in the dark to be sure,
But I who am mourning his plight,
Know accident often exalts the low boor,
And crowds merit down out of sight.
How oft do we see the chief dunce of the town,
With head like a turnip or melon,
Advanced to the Bench, or clergyman’s gown,
Though thought to be born for a felon.
Dost laugh at my song? Well I care not a pin,
My notion I never shall lose;
I know that my dog hath a spirit within,
That cannot be crushed by abuse.