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My Dog





He's just plain yellow: no "blue-ribbon" breed.
In disposition--well, a trifle gruff
Outside his "tried and true." His coat is rough.
To bark at night and sleep by day, his creed.
Yet, when his soft brown eyes so dumbly plead
For one caress from my too-busy hand,
I wonder from what far and unknown land
Came the true soul, which in his gaze I read.
Whence all his loyalty and faithful zeal?
Why does he share my joyous mood, and gay?
Why mourn with me, when I perchance do mourn?
When hunger-pressed, why scorn a bounteous meal
That by my side he may pursue his way?
Whence came his noble soul, and where its bourn?





Next: Without Are Dogs

Previous: To Tim An Irish Terrier



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