The Borough,
by George Crabbe
1810

With eye uprais’d, his master’s looks to scan,
The joy, the solace, and the aid of man;
The rich man’s guardian, and the poor man’s friend,
The only being faithful to the end.

“My Dumb Friends”
by Ralph Wotherspoon

My home is a haven for one who enjoys
The clamour of children and ear-splitting noise
From a number of dogs who are alawys about,
And who want to come in and, once in, to go out.
Whenever I settle to read by the fire,
Some dog will develop an urge to retire,
And I’, constantly opening and shutting the door
For a dog to depart or, as mentioned before,
For a dog to arrive, who politely admitted,
Will make a bee-line for the chair I’ve just quitted.
Our friends may be dumb. but my house is a riot,
Where I cannot sit still and can never be quiet.

“Dog,”
by Harold Monro
1925

O little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.

As so the moment becomes a moving force;
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;

You scamper the stairs,
Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark
Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.

We are going OUT. You know the pitch of the word.
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog
And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard)
The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.

OUT through the garden your head is already low.
You are going your walk, you know,
And your limbs will draw
Joy from the earth through the touch of your padded paw.

Now, sending a little look to us behind,
Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play,
You fetch our bodies forward away from mind
Into light nad fun of your useless day.

Thus, for our walk, we took ourselves, and went
Out by the hedge, and tree, to the open ground.
You ranm in delightful strata of wafted scent,
Over the hill without seeing the view;
Beauty is hinted through primitive smells to you:
And that ultimate Beauty you track is but rarely found.

Home . . .and further joy will be waiting there:
Supper full of the taste of bone.
You lift up your nose again, and sniff, and stare
For the rapture known

Of the quick wild gorge of food, then the still lie-down;
While your people will talk above you in the light
Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown
Into the bed-delicious hours of night.