The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE FUSILIERS' DOG
Go lift him gently from the wheels,
And soothe his dying pain,
For love and care e'en yet he feels
Though love and care be vain;
'Tis sad that, after all these years,
Our comrade and our friend,
The brave dog of the Fusiliers,
Should meet with such an end.
Up Alma's hill, among the vines,
We laughed to see him trot,
Then frisk along the silent lines
To chase the rolling shot;
And, when the work waxed hard by day,
And hard and cold by night,
When that November morning lay
Upon us, like a blight;
And eyes were strained, and ears were bent,
Against the muttering north,
Till the gray mist took shape and sent
Gray scores of Russians forth--
Beneath that slaughter wild and grim
Nor man nor dog would run;
He stood by us, and we by him,
Till the great fight was done.
And right throughout the snow and frost
He faced both shot and shell;
Though unrelieved, he kept his post,
And did his duty well.
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