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.
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