I am only a dog, and I've had my day;
So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I lay
In the welcome warmth of the summer sun,
A poor old hunter whose work is done.

Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog.
Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log?
Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,
Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,

Far away in the top of the hickory tree,
Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,
Till the hand, true and steady, a messenger shot,
And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not?

Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then;
And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen,
The hare on the common, the birds on the bough,
Were afraid. They are safe enough now,

For all we can harm them, old master and I.
We have had our last hunt, the game must go by,
While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door,
For a living. We'll never hunt more.

For time, cold and hardship have stiffened his knee,
And since little Lottie died, often I see
His hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes,
For the lost baby daughter, so pretty and wise.

Oh, it's sad to be old, and to see the blue sky
Look far away to the dim, fading eye;
To feel the fleet foot growing weary and sore
That in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.

I am going—I hear the great wolf on my track;
Already around me his shadow falls black.
One hunting cry more! Oh, master, come nigh,
And lay the white paw in your own as I die!

Oh, come to me, master; the last hedge is passed—
Our tramps in the wildwood are over at last;
Stoop lower, and lay my head on your knee.
What! Tears for a useless old hunter like me?

You will see little Lottie again by and by.
I shan't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.
Tell her, loving and trusty, beside you I died,
And—bury me, master, not far from her side.

For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.
Ha, master, the shadow! Fire low—it is nigh—
There was never a sound in the still morning heard,
But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred.

As he flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat,
And watched the faint life in its quivering throat
Till it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won,
And the death-hunted hound into cover had run.

But long ere the snow over graves softly fell,
Old Matthew was resting from labor as well;
While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hill
The voice of the hound in the morn echoed still.

He was a dog,
But he stayed at home
And guarded the family night and day.
He was a dog
That didn't roam.
He lay on the porch or chased the stray—
The tramps, the burglar, the hen, away;
For a dog's true heart for that household beat
At morning and evening, in cold and heat.
He was a dog.

He was a man,
And didn't stay
To cherish his wife and his children fair.
He was a man.
And every day
His heart grew callous, its love-beats rare,
He thought of himself at the close of day,
And, cigar in his fingers, hurried away
To the club, the lodge, the store, the show.
But—he had a right to go, you know.
He was a man.

Old Rover-Dog, he toasts his toes
Right by th' chimney-fire wif me.
I turned his long ear wrong side out
An' he was s'rprised as he could be!
An' nen he reached right out an' took
An' int'rest in my lolly-pop—
That's w'y I shook my finger hard
At him, 'cause he jus' better stop.

I ast him which his sweet toof was,
An' he jus' laffed an' showed me where
He keeps um, up an' down his mouf—
(I guess there's mos' a hundred there).
He's got a cunning little house,
But you can't climb right in, at all—
Ain't hardly big enough for him;
I guess it is a size too small.

'Cause when he is "at home" his head
Stays looking out of his front door;
His paws hang out convenient like,
So's folks they will shake hands some more.
Old Rover-Dog, w'en he likes folks,
He thumps th' floor hard wif his tail—
Where 'tis you've heard that sound before
Is w'en your pa, he drives a nail.

One time my Uncle Fred p'tend
He's "tramp-mans" an' will come right in;
I put my ear on Rover's back
So's I could hear th' growl begin.
An' oncet he thought he'd try his nap
Right in my grampa's big armchair.
My grampa, he sat down on him,
'Cause "he wa'n't 'spectin' dogs was there."

'N Rover walked off dignified
An' curled his back up 'gainst th' wall—
If grampas ain't got manners, w'y,
He isn't goin' to care at all.
That's w'y I went an' 'xplained to him
How grampas, they ain't imperlite,
A grampa has th' bestest chair
Because his hair is very white.

Nen Rover-Dog raise up one ear
An' lift his nose fum off his paw,
An' say his feelin's aren't all hurt
If that was candy that he saw!
'N w'en he'd et my choc'late cream
He went an' finished up his dream.