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.
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