And deep was the whine of the ould dog Wid a love that was deeper than life-- But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered That Shamus was takin' a wife!
A wife and a fine house he got him; In a shay he went drivin' around; And I met him be chance at the cross-roads, And I says to him, "How's the ould hound?"
"My wife never took to that ould dog," Says he, wid a shrug av his slats, "So we've got us a new dog from Galway, _And och, he's the divil for rats!"_
There watched a cur before the miser's gate-- A very cur, whom all men seemed to hate; Gaunt, shaggy, savage, with an eye that shone Like a live coal; and he possessed but one. His bark was wild and eager, and became That meager body and that eye of flame; His master prized him much, and Fang his name, His master fed him largely, but not that Nor aught of kindness made the snarler fat. Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay-- He barked, and snarled, and growled it all away. His ribs were seen extended like a rack, And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back. Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore, Now his sore body made his temper sore. Such was the friend of him who could not find, Nor make him one, 'mong creatures of his kind. Brave deeds of Fang his master often told, The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old, From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they In earlier times--each dog will have his day.
The notes of Fang were to his master known And dear--they bore some likeness to his own; For both conveyed, to the experienced ear, "I snarl and bite because I hate and fear." None passed ungreeted by the master's door, Fang railed at all, but chiefly at the poor; And when the nights were stormy, cold and dark, The act of Fang was a perpetual bark. But though the master loved the growl of Fang There were who vowed the ugly cur to hang, Whose angry master, watchful for his friend, As strongly vowed his servant to defend.
In one dark night, and such as Fang before Was ever known its tempests to outroar, To his protector's wonder now expressed, No angry notes--his anger was at rest. The wond'ring master sought the silent yard, Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred, Nor more returned to that forsaken bed-- But lo! the morning came, and he was dead. Fang and his master side by side were laid In grim repose--their debt to nature paid. The master's hand upon the cur's cold chest Was now reclined, and had before been pressed, As if he sought how deep and wide the wound That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound; And when he found it was the sleep of death A sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath. Close to his trusty servant he was found, As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.