Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MY TERRIER, by ALFRED COCHRANE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MY TERRIER, by                    
First Line: A scotch patrician, sandy-haired
Last Line: His tail to a contented wagging.
Subject(s): Animals; Dogs


A SCOTCH patrician, sandy-haired,
Whose forefathers would whine and gambol
Round some forgotten lowland laird,
Companions of his morning ramble;
He wakes a Northern memory still
Of salmon in the river leaping,
Of grouse that call upon the hill,
And sunlight on the larch-wood sleeping.

Alas! his lot is cast in lines
That more prosaic patterns follow,
Far from the fragrance of the pines,
From heathered slope and misty hollow;
To all among the hurrying wheels
Where crowds are thick and streets are gritty,
A close attendant at my heels,
He treads the pavement of the City.

Now curled upon the rug he lies,
Yet, as I write, his head he raises
To gaze at me with anxious eyes,
As though to bid me sing his praises;
Then, dozing off again, renews
The ecstasy of ancient habits,
And, whining in his dreams, pursues
A multitude of phantom rabbits.

The pleasures of his daily round
Might, were his nature less convivial,
In process of the years be found
Somewhat monotonous and trivial;
Each night the handiwork of Spratt
He hails with healthy acclamation,
Each day he greets my stick and hat
With furious barks of approbation

One would suppose a walk with me
Scarce merited such boisterous greeting.
Yet blissful prospects he can see
Of many a courteous wayside meeting
With other dogs, who never fail
To rouse an interest none may measure
And set the apex of his tail
A-trembling with mysterious pleasure.

Though you might think that each surmised
That he had many a canine brother,
They all seem curiously surprised
Day after day to see each other;
In that pricked ear and eager eye
Astonishment may be detected,
And those spasmodic leaps imply
A flavour of the unexpected.

I wish my pen for him could claim
A character for great astuteness,
Or hopes of an enduring fame
Based on phenomenal acuteness;
But since I hope that I possess
A reputation for veracity,
I have not in the public press
Told anecdotes of his sagacity.

Of no attainments he can boast—
I venture the confession sadly—
Though round the table he will coast
And beg assiduously but badly;
Yet his devotion makes amends,
And when my nerves are strung and restive,
The best of faithful silent friends,
I find him pleasantly suggestive.

For I am sure that here is one
Who, whatsoe'er my fault and failing,
Whatever I have said or done
Will spare me rough abuse and railing;
When criticism waxes cold,
In hours of bitter introspection,
Still in that doggish heart I hold
A changeless standard of perfection.

He reads me morals, too, who find
So much to agitate and vex me,
And to the riddles of mankind
So many answers that perplex me;
He who his little life surveys
With spirits bu yant and unflagging,
And needs such trifling joys to raise
His tail to a contented wagging.





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