Songs from the Mountains


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.

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