POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2091, 5 November 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

ONLY A CUB. Only a cur—a blind, old, meagre creature, Mongrel in blood, long-jawed and lean of limb; Ugly enough in color, shape and feature— _ Who seeks a lady’s pet would pass by him. And yet within that form uncouth, ungainly. Are things not always linked to human dust— Virtues that oft in man we look for vainly— Courage, affection, faithfulness to trust. Only a cur—’tis very true, I own it; 1 have no record of his pedigree; The stock he sprung from, I have never known it. If high or low his family may be. He should be poor indeed to suit his master. To whom a greenback sometimes is a show; . But not the wealth of Bothsohild or of Astor Would tempt me now to let old “ Towser ” go. You see that stripling in the meadow mowing— Well-knit for eighteen years, and strong and lithe; Longaide the foremost in the row a-going;. Steady as clockwork moves his sweeping scythe. Well, that’s my boy, and something like me, rather In face than mind—in habits not, they say ; The son is far more careful than the father. Earns much, spends little —he’ll be rich ono day. Old Towser one day saved that boy from, dying. Twelve years ago—round here the story’s known; You’d scarcely think, as yon behold him lying. He fought a wolf, and mastered him alone. Even if the service we don’t care to measure. The feat’s not one that every dog can do— That’s right, old Towser, raise your ears with, pleasure And wag your tail—you know I speak of you.

Since then the true old dog has stood as sentry Over our household camp by sight and day; Nor rogue nor robber ever made an entry, With Towser’s vigilance to stop the way. Nor lochs, nor bolts, nor bars were ever heeded ; We slept serenely while he stood on guard ; Each sound suspicious by his quick ears heeded— Hie fangs intruders from our slumbers barred. Faithful to us, distrustful to a stranger, Obedient to a sign expressing will ; True to his master, fearless of all danger, 111-fed at times, but fond and grateful still— No eleek and pampered dog of finest breeding. Beared in a palace, and with dainties fed, Has ever shown high qualities exceeding Those of this brute, base-born and underbred. Only a cur, indeed ! If such you name him. Where be your dogs of honour and degree ? Since none with duties left undone can blame him, What brute ranks higher in his kind than he? If human kind would do as well its duty, Tho world were spared one-half its woe and pain. Worth would seem better in our eyes than, beauty, And deeds, not looks, our admiration gam.