Classic Poem

(Run over, after having gone through the Crimean Campaign)

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 grey mist took shape, and sent
Grey 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.
By death on death the time was stained,
By want, disease, despair;
Like autumn leaves our army waned,
But still the dog was there:

He cheered us through those hours of gloom;
We fed him in our dearth;
Through him the trench's living tomb
Rang loud with reckless mirth;
And thus, when peace returned once more,
After the city's fall,
That veteran home in pride we bore,
And loved him, one and all.

With ranks refilled, our hearts were sick,
And to old memories clung;
The grim ravines we left glared thick
With death-stones of the young.
Hands which had patted him lay chill,
Voices which called were dumb,
And footsteps that he watched for still
Never again could come.

Never again; this world of woe
Still hurries on so fast;
They come not back, 'tis he must go
To join them in the past:
There, with brave names and deeds entwined,
Which Time may not forget,
Young Fusiliers unborn shall find
The legend of our pet.

Whilst o'er fresh years, and other life
Yet in God's mystic urn,
The picture of the mighty strife
Arises sad and stern —
Blood all in front, behind far shrines
With women weeping low,
For whom each lost one's fane but shines,
As shines the moon on snow —

Marked by the medal, his of right,
And by his kind keen face,
Under that visionary light
Poor Bob shall keep his place;
And never may our honoured Queen
For love and service pay,
Less brave, less patient, or more mean
Than his we mourn to-day!