Old Monarch.
There was ice on the river, and snow on the ground,
The wind whistled bitterly cold,
When a worn-out, half-famished, and footsore old hound
Crept cautiously into the fold.
The shepherd perceived him, as coiled up he lay.
And rated poor Monarch right well,
Who rose uncomplaining and went on his way,
Where to, and what for, I shall tell.
Time was when old Monarch, a fine leading hound,
Was petted by rich and by poor,
Not then, I presume, could a shepherd be found
To turn the brave hound from his door.
Howe'er, let that pass, as all things must do,
Poor Monarch no longer was young.
No longer was first subtle Charley to view,
No longer the first to give tongue.
Just heed the poor fellow, as onward he goes,
Nor hunger nor cold does he mind,
With the blood oozing out from between his poor toes,
The grave of the huntsman to find.
With love unabated, and instinct all true,
He crawls, where at last he is found,
To the grave of his master, 'twas all he could do,
But it proved him a faithful old hound.
