The Dying Poet To His Dog. Poem by Samuel Bamford

My old companion, Rover!
More true than human lover,
Our cares are nearly over—
My tried friend!
'I'hy life with mine is wasting,
And welcome death is hasting;
Our poverty and fasting
Are at an end!

I have sung of Britain's glory,
Of battles fierce and gory,
Of lovely lady's story
In bow'r so gay!
But the soldier's gone a-fighting,
The lady is delighting,
The poet coldly slighting—
Ah, well a day!

My wife away hath wander'd,
My children, they are squander'd,
My reputation slander'd,
Oh, woo to me!
My bloom of life is blighted,
My days, how soon benighted!
My love, my friendship slighted
By all but thee!

When plenty round me shower'd,
And blessings on me pour'd,
Ere grim misfortune lour'd;
Ah, happy day!
Thou ever wert contented,
And more thou never wanted;
Intrusion thou prevented
With watchful bay!

And when stern ruin rushing,
My airy castles crushing,
Each tone of pleasure hushing,
Bore me down;
Thou never seemedst coyer,
Thou never playedst shyer,
Thy tail was held no higher,
My bonny brown!

And when my heart was breaking,
When faithless friends, forsaking,
Were evil of me speaking,
Where wert thou?
I found thee still beside me;
Though poor, thou could'st abide me;
And death shall not divide me
From thee now!

And when disease o'ertook me,
When pains and palsies shook me,
Thou never once forsook me,
Oh, my friend!
Thou never didst neglect me,
Thou always wouldst protect me;
And shall not I respect thee,
Fen to the end?

The poet's eye was closing,
His dog beside him dozing,
And heaven, interposing,
Clos'd the scene!
The primrose groweth over
The bard and his Rover,
Beneath a fragrant cover
Of broom so green!