The Hope of the World and other poems by Charles Mackay |
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THE PILGRIM'S DOG. |
 | The Hope of the World and other poems |  |
184
THE PILGRIM'S DOG.
There came a pilgrim to the gate,
An aged man was he,
And he sat him down upon a stone,
And sigh'd most bitterly:
The night was cold,—the fierce winds howl'd
With loud and blustering din,
So, to restore his drooping strength,
We ask'd the good man in.
An aged man was he,
And he sat him down upon a stone,
And sigh'd most bitterly:
The night was cold,—the fierce winds howl'd
With loud and blustering din,
So, to restore his drooping strength,
We ask'd the good man in.
“Now sit thee down, thou poor old man,
Here's ale an thou art dry,
And tell us now what troubles thee,
And wherefore thou dost sigh?”—
The aged man he sat him down,
He drank no wine nor ale,
But shook the damp dew from his cloak,
And thus began his tale:
Here's ale an thou art dry,
And tell us now what troubles thee,
And wherefore thou dost sigh?”—
The aged man he sat him down,
He drank no wine nor ale,
But shook the damp dew from his cloak,
And thus began his tale:
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“Oh! hoary is my head, and grey,
For many years I've seen,
And over many a distant land
My weary feet have been:
And I have braved the summer heat,
And borne the winter cold,
Without a murmur or complaint,
Though poor, and very old.
For many years I've seen,
And over many a distant land
My weary feet have been:
And I have braved the summer heat,
And borne the winter cold,
Without a murmur or complaint,
Though poor, and very old.
“But then I had a faithful friend,
Companion of my way,
Who jogg'd contented by my side
For many a weary day;
Who shared my crust, when crust I had,
At noon beneath a hill,
And who, when I had none to give,
Was grateful for the will:
Companion of my way,
Who jogg'd contented by my side
For many a weary day;
Who shared my crust, when crust I had,
At noon beneath a hill,
And who, when I had none to give,
Was grateful for the will:
“Who, when benighted on our road,
And far from barn or bield,
Lay down contented at my feet,
In many a stubble field;
Who, when the world look'd harshly down,
Was never false or cold,
But look'd up kindly in my face,
To cheer the pilgrim old.
And far from barn or bield,
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In many a stubble field;
Who, when the world look'd harshly down,
Was never false or cold,
But look'd up kindly in my face,
To cheer the pilgrim old.
“Long time had we companions been,
In every changeful weather,
'Mid frost and snow, and driving sleet,
We trudged along together;
And now he lies upon the road—
Ah! cold and dead lies he,
And I am in the world alone,
With none to care for me!”
In every changeful weather,
'Mid frost and snow, and driving sleet,
We trudged along together;
And now he lies upon the road—
Ah! cold and dead lies he,
And I am in the world alone,
With none to care for me!”
The tear that coursed the old man's cheek,
He quickly wiped away—
“My blessing with you!” murmur'd he,
But stay me not, I pray;
I seek the spot where low he lies;
The sod all wet with dew,
With a sad heart to make a grave,
And bury that friend so true!”
He quickly wiped away—
“My blessing with you!” murmur'd he,
But stay me not, I pray;
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The sod all wet with dew,
With a sad heart to make a grave,
And bury that friend so true!”
“Nay, hold, good man! art thou a monk
Of orders grey or white,
To utter for thy parted friend
The solemn Christian rite?”
The old man sigh'd, and shook his head—
No Christian might he be,
Though many Christians that I wot of,
Are not so good as he!
Of orders grey or white,
To utter for thy parted friend
The solemn Christian rite?”
The old man sigh'd, and shook his head—
No Christian might he be,
Though many Christians that I wot of,
Are not so good as he!
“Nothing was he—but a poor man's dog,
A good one and a bold;
The truest friend that ever I had,
And now he's dead and cold!”
That aged man went out alone,
Alone and sad went he,
And bent his course adown the hill
Where stands the wither'd tree.
A good one and a bold;
The truest friend that ever I had,
And now he's dead and cold!”
That aged man went out alone,
Alone and sad went he,
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Where stands the wither'd tree.
The morning sun rose up again,
The lark began to sing,
And village girls went forth to draw
Fresh water from the spring;
And when they came beneath the tree,
The tree all dead and sear,
That pilgrim old had written there
The words that ye shall hear:—
The lark began to sing,
And village girls went forth to draw
Fresh water from the spring;
And when they came beneath the tree,
The tree all dead and sear,
That pilgrim old had written there
The words that ye shall hear:—
“Here lieth one who had no soul—
For so the sages say;
Though from the right and kindly path
He never went astray.
His head was not devoid of sense,
His heart was ever true;—
Passer! 'twas Instinct guided him,
And Reason shines for you!
Pause at this grave—think of thine own;
Then act, that men may see
As true an epitaph as this
Inscribed at last for thee!”
For so the sages say;
Though from the right and kindly path
He never went astray.
His head was not devoid of sense,
His heart was ever true;—
Passer! 'twas Instinct guided him,
And Reason shines for you!
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Then act, that men may see
As true an epitaph as this
Inscribed at last for thee!”
| The Hope of the World and other poems | |