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

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 Maid With Fancy Free

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Centaur

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

To Our Lady Nicotine

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Cerberus

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

The Golden Cat

Great is the Golden Cat who treads
    The Blue Roof Garden o'er our heads,
The never tired smiling One
    That Human People call the Sun.

He stretches forth his paw at dawn
    And though the blinds are closely drawn
His claws peep through like Rays of Light,
    To catch the fluttering Bird of Night.

He smiles into the Hayloft dim
    And the brown Hay smiles back at him,
And when he strokes the Earth's green fur
    He makes the Fields and Meadows purr.

His face is one big Golden smile,
    It measures round, at least a mile--
How dull our World would be, and flat,
    Without the Golden Pussy Cat.

Oliver Herford

The Dogs' Welcome

Hush! We're not a pack of boys
Always bound to make a noise.
    True, there's one amongst us, but
    He is young;
And, wherever we may take him,
    We can generally shut
Such a youngster up and make him
    Hold his tongue.

Hush! Most cautiously we go
On the tippest tip of toe.
    Are the dogs expecting us
    At the gate?
Two, who usually prize us,
    Will they jump and make a fuss?
Will they really recognise us
    Where they wait?

    Hush! I hear the funny pair
    Softly whimpering - yes, they're there.
Dane and Pekinese, they scratch
    At the wood,
    At the solid wood between us;
Duke attempts to lift the latch;
    It's a month since they have seen us -
    Open! Good!

Down, Duke, down! ...

R. C. Lehmann

Old Mother Hubbard

Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard
To get her poor Dog a bone;
But when she came there
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor Dog had none.

She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was dead.

She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin,
But when she came back,
The poor Dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish
To get him some tripe,
But when she came back,
He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer,
But when she came back,
The Dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
For white wine and red,
But when she came back,
The Dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's,
To buy him a hat,
But when...

Walter Crane

The Cat.

OB-SERVE the Cat up-on this page.
Phil-os-o-phers in ev-er-y age,
The ver-y wis-est of the wise,
Have tried her mind to an-a-lyze
In vain, for noth-ing can they learn.
She baf-fles them at ev-er-y turn
Like Mis-ter Ham-let in the play.
She leads their rea-son-ing a-stray;
She feigns an in-ter-est in string
Or yarn or any roll-ing thing.
Un-like the Dog, she does not care
With com-mon Man her thoughts to share.
She teach-es us that in life's walk
'T is bet-ter to let oth-ers talk,
And lis-ten while they say in-stead
The fool-ish things we might have said.

Oliver Herford