MY HOUND

I HAVE wandered far in many a clime,
 And many a faithful friend have found,
But none who better deserves my rhyme
Than brave old Nigger, my faithful hound;
For never a man on land or sea
Had truer ally or friend than he.

His coat is sleek as an Arab steed,
He is clean of limb as a yearling deer.
A match for the greyhound in his speed,
With a voice so loud and silvery clear
You would swear, as he sweeps thro’ the mountain dells,
’Twas a musical chime of vesper bells.

Often, when tired of this strife for bread,
Have he and I wandered where gurgling rills
In purity spring from their mountain bed
In the ice-cold bosoms of distant hills;
And, leaving the world to its wearisome ways,
Have built us a shanty and camped for days.

And often when night closed over our camp
And he was away on the track of deer,
Have I breathless listened to catch the tramp
Of his pattering feet draw swiftly near.
I have listened till silence became a pain,
But never yet did I listen in vain.

I have lain by my camp-fire’s glowing light
And lazily fingered his silken ears,
Till meeting his eye, so wistfully bright,
My own has silently filled with tears
As I thought with shame of some harsh rebuff
To my poor dumb friend, when my mood was rough.