Classic Poem

He called his dog (that sometime had the praise)
Whitefoot, well known to all that keep the plain,
That many a wolf had worried in his days,
A better cur there never followed swain;
Which, though as he his master's sorrows knew,
Wagged his cut tail, his wretched plight to rue.

‘Poor cur,’ quoth he, and him therewith did stroke;
‘Go to our cote, and there thyself repose,
Thou with thine age, my heart with sorrow broke,
Be gone e'er death my restless eyes do close,
The time is come thou must thy master leave,
Whom the vile world shall never more deceive.’