 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
301
ONLY A CUR.
Only a cur—a blind, old, meagre creature,
Mongrel in blood, long-jawed, and lean of limb;
Ugly enough in color, shape and feature—
Who seeks a lady's pet would pass by him.
And yet within that form uncouth, ungainly,
Are things not always linked to human dust—
Virtues that oft in man we look for vainly—
Courage, affection, faithfulness to trust.
Mongrel in blood, long-jawed, and lean of limb;
Ugly enough in color, shape and feature—
Who seeks a lady's pet would pass by him.
And yet within that form uncouth, ungainly,
Are things not always linked to human dust—
Virtues that oft in man we look for vainly—
Courage, affection, faithfulness to trust.
Only a cur—'tis very true, I own it;
I have no record of his pedigree;
The stock he sprung from, I have never known it,
If high or low his family may be.
He should be poor indeed to suit his master,
To whom a greenback sometimes is a show;
But not the wealth of Rothschild or of Astor
Would tempt me now to let old Towser go.
I have no record of his pedigree;
The stock he sprung from, I have never known it,
If high or low his family may be.
He should be poor indeed to suit his master,
To whom a greenback sometimes is a show;
But not the wealth of Rothschild or of Astor
Would tempt me now to let old Towser go.
You see that stripling in the meadow mowing—
Well-knit for eighteen years, and strong and lithe;
'Longside the foremost in the row a-going;
Steady as clock-work moves his sweeping scythe.
Well, that's my boy, and something like me, rather
In face than mind—in habits not, they say;
The son is far more careful than the father,
Earns much, spends little—he'll be rich one day.
Well-knit for eighteen years, and strong and lithe;
'Longside the foremost in the row a-going;
Steady as clock-work moves his sweeping scythe.
Well, that's my boy, and something like me, rather
In face than mind—in habits not, they say;
The son is far more careful than the father,
Earns much, spends little—he'll be rich one day.
Old Towser one time saved that boy from dying,
Twelve years ago—round here the story's known;
You'd scarcely think, as you behold him lying,
He fought a wolf, and mastered him alone.
Even if the service we don't care to measure,
The feat's not one that every dog can do—
That's right, old Towser! raise your ears with pleasure,
And wag your tail—you know I speak of you.
Twelve years ago—round here the story's known;
You'd scarcely think, as you behold him lying,
He fought a wolf, and mastered him alone.
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The feat's not one that every dog can do—
That's right, old Towser! raise your ears with pleasure,
And wag your tail—you know I speak of you.
Since then the true old dog has stood as sentry
Over our household camp by night and day;
Nor rogue nor robber ever made an entry
With Towser's vigilance to stop the way.
Not locks, nor bolts, nor bars were ever needed;
We slept serenely while he stood on guard;
Each sound suspicious by his quick ears heeded—
His fangs intruders from our slumbers barred.
Over our household camp by night and day;
Nor rogue nor robber ever made an entry
With Towser's vigilance to stop the way.
Not locks, nor bolts, nor bars were ever needed;
We slept serenely while he stood on guard;
Each sound suspicious by his quick ears heeded—
His fangs intruders from our slumbers barred.
Faithful to us, distrustful to a stranger,
Obedient to a sign expressing will;
True to his master, fearless of all danger,
Ill-fed at times, but fond and grateful still—
No sleek and pampered dog of finest breeding,
Reared in a palace and with dainties fed,
Has ever shown high qualities exceeding
Those of this brute, base-born and underbred.
Obedient to a sign expressing will;
True to his master, fearless of all danger,
Ill-fed at times, but fond and grateful still—
No sleek and pampered dog of finest breeding,
Reared in a palace and with dainties fed,
Has ever shown high qualities exceeding
Those of this brute, base-born and underbred.
Only a cur, indeed! If such you name him,
Where be your dogs of honor and degree?
Since none with duties left undone can blame him,
What brute ranks higher in its kind than he?
If human-kind would do as well its duty,
The world were spared one-half its woe and pain,
Worth would seem better in our eyes than beauty,
And deeds, not looks, our admiration gain.
Where be your dogs of honor and degree?
Since none with duties left undone can blame him,
What brute ranks higher in its kind than he?
If human-kind would do as well its duty,
The world were spared one-half its woe and pain,
Worth would seem better in our eyes than beauty,
And deeds, not looks, our admiration gain.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |