POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2692, 23 November 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

THE SOLDIER’S DOG

The sun sank to rest in the far-away west And the lust fading beams of his glory. Now cheerless and cold, shone like dull, tarnished gold On the battlefield, bloodstained and gory

The ground was deep red with the warriors dead. Who had fought and surrendered to no

men. And no more would come the deep roll of the drum Which had bidden them conquer the foemon.

Here, ’neath his dead horse, lay a warrior s corse. And, although now so ghastly and mute, he Had with his last breath shouted, “ Victory or death !” And died, nobly doing his duty.

And there by a trench they had won from the French, . Palo and rigid, a soldier was And fast from his side flowed the dark crimson tide. Which he strove not to staunch —ho was dying !

In midst of the fray with the foemen that Of life they had nearly bereft him ; Yet still his old hound, whilst the shots whistled round. Faithful unto the last, never left him.

And now the poor brute licked the face pale and mute. Whilst he guarded the form of his master. And his piteous howl raised the can-ion fowl From its feast as the night gathered faster.

Then consciousness came, and the dearlyloved name Of his dog the young officer uttered — “ My faithful old friend, thou art true to the end,” He feebly and huskily muttered.

Then his body ho raised on his elbow and gazed Sadly round on the scene of the slaughter. And choked back a cry, as he gazed with a sigh—- “ Grant me. Heaven, but one drop of water! ”

Now dense was the dark, when the hound with a bark. Prom the poor master’s side quickly started. Then sprang through the gloom and left him to his doom— For the soldier’s last friend had departed. “ All friends I have known,” cried the youth, with a moan, “ Thus have gone in the hour of my sorrow ; But he ! ’tis the worst. Give me water— I thirst ! Oh ! God, let me die ore the morrow 1” The first streak of grey—’twas the herald of day— Through the night’s sombre mantle was breaking. And the carrion crow with a hoarse croak of woe. Was the way to Its haunts quickly making.

Along the road then passed a body a men — And a bound, weary, wounded, and bleeding. With pitiful howl, and a deep, moaning growl. Was the way to the battlefield leading.

The sun shone proudly as the dog led them

on — Let each age tell tho glorious story! Still onward he led through the lines of the dead. Past the warriors youthful and hoary.

Until by a trench that was won from the French, They stayed, on tho scone of the slaughter; When a half-stifled groan and a pitiful moan Was heard, as a faint voice gasped, “ Water !”

They lifted him up, to his lips placed the cup ; But the film on his eye gathered faster. When tho noble old hound with his last feeble bound. Quickly sprang to the feet of his master.

“ Oh, God ! my old friend ! —faithful, true to the end !” Cried the youth, but too late had they found him; For sadly he sighed—smiled, then fell back and died. On the field with bis comrades around him.

Yet the hound at his place licked the cold pallid face. And still guarding that form for ayemute, he Gave one dying yell, by the dead soldier fell. And died, nobly doing his duty. And there, by a trench that was dug by the French, On the field of that fearful disaster. The spot still is shown, where, beneath a white stone. Lies the hound at the feet of his master ! Fhed, R. Coulson.