An Epitaph On My Dog Turk Poem by Benjamin Cutler Clark

The last remains of 'Turk' lie here,
Who ne'er was known to shrink, or fear
The face of interloper;
Poor 'Turk' was ever, soon or late,
From puppy up to dog's estate,
A foe to thief or loafer.

So thus upon a certain day,
As 'Turk' stole out, some thought to play,
Or to hide from his master,
Oh, cruel fate! he was shot dead;
The ball pass'd through the poor dog's head—
Such was his sad disaster.

Now, all the canine race may take
Warning by 'Turk's' unhappy fate,
And learn to stay at home;
Nor bark or bite, and snarl and scout,
Or break their chains and run about,
When call'd, refuse to come.