Chained to his narrow house by night,
Chained to his narrow house by day,
For months and years, a saddening sight,
Is our old friend, poor prisoner Tray.
His glossy hair is mixed with white;
Affectionate and kind is he;
A watchful guardian of the night,
And faithful as a dog can be.
Quick as his master gave command
The dog was ready to obey;
And yet no felon in the land
Is manacled like poor dog Tray.
All guiltless is the dog of crime;
His only fault is love of play;
And 't is a sad, long, weary time
Since aught of that had poor dog Tray.
But he was born to better days,
And better days had tasted yet
Had not his master's fickle ways
Forsaken Tray for some new pet.
No well-known calls to tramp the street,
No whistling forth to festive play,
Nor scarce an answer to his greet
Now comes to cheer poor prisoner Tray.
The dog discarded fain would lick
The hand that smites, though it might slay,
Or foot that deals the cruel kick,
So unrevengeful is poor Tray.
Yes, for his master faithful Tray
Would risk his life to serve or save;
And were he slain and borne away,
The dog would pine upon his grave.
For Tray was once a favorite,
And having loved will love alway
The master who has not a bit
Of love remaining for poor Tray.
Oh, faithless man's inconstancy!
Oh, faithful dog that loves alway!
Our pattern would the dog might be, —
I would that men might copy Tray!
His frantic joy when any one
Came near as if to loose his chain, —
His wailings when the act undone
Showed him his hopes had been in vain,
Brought forth from timid lips the word, —
— The dog is mad! — Alack, the day!
Had that expression been unheard,
It had not been so hard for Tray.
Now chained and muzzled both at once,
Like maniac in strait-jacket clad,
Is poor dog Tray, lest coward dunce
May think the dog is going mad.
They took him from the sunny air,
They shackled him like felon-slave;
But better had they slain him there
Than bound him living to his grave.
The prisoner of Chilon, 't is said,
Within his cell grew old and gray, —
A living corpse that breathed, though dead;
And such, alas! is poor dog Tray.
No wonder that he wastes his breath
In long-drawn moans, by night and day;
It is the poor dog's prayer for death,
And yet he prays in vain, poor Tray.
Chained to his narrow house by day,
For months and years, a saddening sight,
Is our old friend, poor prisoner Tray.
His glossy hair is mixed with white;
Affectionate and kind is he;
A watchful guardian of the night,
And faithful as a dog can be.
Quick as his master gave command
The dog was ready to obey;
And yet no felon in the land
Is manacled like poor dog Tray.
All guiltless is the dog of crime;
His only fault is love of play;
And 't is a sad, long, weary time
Since aught of that had poor dog Tray.
But he was born to better days,
And better days had tasted yet
Had not his master's fickle ways
Forsaken Tray for some new pet.
No well-known calls to tramp the street,
No whistling forth to festive play,
Nor scarce an answer to his greet
Now comes to cheer poor prisoner Tray.
The dog discarded fain would lick
The hand that smites, though it might slay,
Or foot that deals the cruel kick,
So unrevengeful is poor Tray.
Yes, for his master faithful Tray
Would risk his life to serve or save;
And were he slain and borne away,
The dog would pine upon his grave.
For Tray was once a favorite,
And having loved will love alway
The master who has not a bit
Of love remaining for poor Tray.
Oh, faithless man's inconstancy!
Oh, faithful dog that loves alway!
Our pattern would the dog might be, —
I would that men might copy Tray!
His frantic joy when any one
Came near as if to loose his chain, —
His wailings when the act undone
Showed him his hopes had been in vain,
Brought forth from timid lips the word, —
— The dog is mad! — Alack, the day!
Had that expression been unheard,
It had not been so hard for Tray.
Now chained and muzzled both at once,
Like maniac in strait-jacket clad,
Is poor dog Tray, lest coward dunce
May think the dog is going mad.
They took him from the sunny air,
They shackled him like felon-slave;
But better had they slain him there
Than bound him living to his grave.
The prisoner of Chilon, 't is said,
Within his cell grew old and gray, —
A living corpse that breathed, though dead;
And such, alas! is poor dog Tray.
No wonder that he wastes his breath
In long-drawn moans, by night and day;
It is the poor dog's prayer for death,
And yet he prays in vain, poor Tray.