The Dog.

HERE is the Dog.    Since time be-gan,
The Dog has been the friend of MAN,
The Dog loves MAN be-cause he shears
His coat and clips his tail and ears.
MAN loves the Dog be-cause he'll stay
And lis-ten to his talk all day,
And wag his tail and show de-light
At all his jokes, how-ev-er trite.
His bark is far worse than his bite,
So peo-ple say.    They may be right;
Yet if to make a choice I had,
I'd choose his bark, how-ev-er bad.

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

To The Publisher

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Mongoos.

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To The Waiter

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Jinn

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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The Dog

The Dog is black or white or brown
    And sometimes spotted like a clown.
He loves to make a foolish noise
    And Human Company enjoys.

The Human People pat his head
    And teach him to pretend he's dead,
And beg, and fetch and carry too;
    Things that no well-bred Cat will do.

At Human jokes, however stale,
    He jumps about and wags his tail,
And Human People clap their hands
    And think he really understands.

They say "Good Dog" to him. To us
    They say "Poor Puss," and make no fuss.
Why Dogs are "good" and Cats are "poor"
    I fail to understand, I'm sure.

To Someone very Good and Just,
    Who has proved worthy of her trust,
A Cat will _sometimes_ condescend--
    The Dog is Everybody's friend.

Oliver Herford

The Puppy

The Puppy cannot mew or talk,
    He has a funny kind of walk,
His tail is difficult to wag
    And that's what makes him walk zigzag.

He is the Kitten of a Dog,
    From morn till night he's all agog--
Forever seeking something new
    That's good but isn't meant to chew.

He romps about the Tulip bed,
    And chews the Flowers white and red,
And when the Gardener comes to see
    He's sure to blame mamma or me.

One game that cannot ever fail
    To please him is to chase his tail--
(To catch one's tail, 'twixt me and you,
    Is not an easy thing to do.)

If he has not a pretty face
    The Puppy's heart is in its place.
I'm sorry he must grow into
    A Horrid, Noisy Dog, aren't you?

Oliver Herford

Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
...

Oliver Goldsmith

Rover

No classic warrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages
No lordly-hearted man of men
My Muses 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,
Dont wonder, friend; Ive 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 ...

Henry Kendall

To A Bull-Dog

    (W. H. S., Capt. [Acting Major] R.F.A.; killed April 12, 1917)

    We sha'n't see Willy any more, Mamie,
    He won't be coming any more:
    He came back once and again and again,
    But he won't get leave any more.

    We looked from the window and there was his cab,
    And we ran downstairs like a streak,
    And he said "Hullo, you bad dog," and you crouched to the floor,
    Paralysed to hear him speak,

    And then let fly at his face and his chest
    Till I had to hold you down,
    While he took off his cap and his gloves and his coat.
    And his bag and his thonged Sam Browne.

    We went upstairs to the studio,
    The three of us, just as of old,
    And you lay down and I sat and talked to him
    As round the...

John Collings Squire, Sir

The Power of the Dog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie,
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find, it's your own affair,
But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your sin...

Rudyard