Rover
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.
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