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.