Classic Poem

Three dollars to pay for this poor old hound!
May the tempest strike me down to the ground!
What mean you, gentlemen of the police?
I wonder what new imposition's this!

For an old, sick, helpless, man am I,
Not a penny can earn, whate'er I try;
No money have I; no, nor bread; indeed,
I live but a life of hunger and need.

And when I became thus feeble and poor,
Say, whose compassion and pity was sure?
Who, since God's world I've traveled alone,
Himself a faithful companion hath shown?

When grief wrung my heart, whose love then was true?
When cold winds pierced me, who warmed me too?
When I, mad with hunger, complaints let fall,
Though hungry too, snarled he never at all.

'Tis all at an end between you and me,
For parted, my poor old friend, we must be;
Like me, you are old, grown hollow your flanks,
And now I must drown you—this is your thanks.

This is your thanks—the reward of your worth;
'Tis with you as with many a child of earth!
The devil! many a battle I've seen,
But executioner never have been.

Yes, here is the rope and here is the stone,
And there is the water—it must be done:
Come here, my poor dog—but don't look at me—
Yet one step nearer—soon over 'twill be—

As its neck was caught in the fatal band,
Wagging its tail, the dog licked his hand;
Then quickly backward he drew the sling,
And round his own neck he twisted the string;

And then, as a terrible oath he swore,
Gathering his utmost strength, from the shore
Sprang in the stream; to receive him it leapt,
And, circling, above him in silence swept.

Though at once to his aid did the good dog leap,
And, howling, the boatmen aroused from sleep;
Though quickly the way to the place he led,
Yet when they found him, his master was dead.

In the silence of night a grave they made
And in it the corpse of the beggar was laid;
And the dog that e'en death could not drive from his side,
Broken-hearted, lay down on the grave and died.