Shepherd Lubin and his dog Tray

SHEPHERD LUBIN

and his

DOG TRAY.

A tale.

—►►0◄◄—

“An orphan lad poor Lubin was,
No friend, no relative had he!
His happiest hour was dash’d with wo,
His mildest treatment—tyranny.”

GLASGOW:

printed for and sold by

Brash & Reid.

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SHEPHERD LUBIN.

I.

Young Lubin was a shepherd boy,
⁠Who watch’d a rigid master’s sheep,
And many a night was heard to sigh,
⁠And many a day was seen to weep:

II.

For not a lambkin e’er was lost,
⁠Or wether stray’d to field remote;
But Lubin ever was to blame,
⁠Nor careful he, nor penn’d his cote.

III.

Yet not a trustier lad was known,
⁠To climb the promontory’s brow;
Nor yet a tenderer heart e’er beat,
⁠Beside the brook in vale below.

IV.

From him stern winter’s drifting snow,
⁠Its pelting sleet, or frost severe;
Or scorching summer’s sultry ray,
⁠Ne’er forc’d a murmur, or a tear.

V.

For ah! the varying seasons had
⁠To ev’ry hardship form’d his frame;
Tho’ still his tender feeling heart,
⁠By nature nurs’d, remain’d the same.

VI.

But whither shall the orphan fly
⁠To meet protection's fostering power?
Oppression waits the future day,
⁠When misery marks the natal hour.

VII.

An orphan lad poor Lubin was,
⁠No friend, no relative had he!
His happiest hour was dash’d with wo,
⁠His mildest treatment——tyranny.

VIII.

It chanc’d that o’er the boundless heath
⁠One winter’s day his flocks had spread;
By hunger urg’d to seek the blade,
⁠That lurk’d beneath its snowy bed.

IX.

And, hous’d at eve, his fleecy charge,
⁠He, sorrowing, miss'd a favourite lamb,
That shunn’d the long persisting search,
⁠Nor answer’d to its bleeting dam.

X.

With heavy heart he shap’d his way,
⁠And told so true, so sad a tale,
That almost pierc’d the marble breast
⁠Of ruthless Rufus of the vale.

XI.

Poor Lubin own’d his flocks had stray’d,
⁠Own’d he had suffer’d them to go;
Yes !—he had learn’d to pity them,
⁠For often he had hunger’d too:

XII.

And had he to their pinching wants,
⁠The unnipp’d neighb'ring bounds deny’d;
They sure had dropp’d——as surely too,
⁠The pitying shepherd boy had died.

XIII.

Then die!——th’ unfeeling master said,
⁠And spurn’d him from his closing door;
Which, till he found his favourite lamb,
⁠He vow’d should ne’er admit him more.

XIV.

Dark was the night, and o’er the waste
⁠The whistling winds did fiercely blow.
And ’gainst his poor unshelter’d head,
⁠With arrowy keenness came the snow:

XV.

The small thick snow that Eurus drives
⁠In freezing fury o’er the plain,
And with unsparing vengeance, scores
⁠The callous face of hardiest swain.

XVI.

Yet thus he left his master’s house,
⁠And shap’d his sad uncertain way;
By man unnotic’d and forsook,
⁠And follow’d but by——trusty Tray——

XVII.

Poor trusty Tray! a faithful dog;
⁠Lubin and he were young together:
Still would they grace each other’s side,
⁠Whate’er the time, whate’er the weather.

XVIII.

Unlike to worldly friends were they,
⁠Who separate in Fortune’s blast—
They still were near when fair the sky,
⁠But nearer still when overcast.

XIX.

When Lubin’s random step involv’d
⁠His body ’neath the drifted snow,
Tray help’d him forth; and when Tray fell,
⁠Poor Lubin dragg’d him from below.

XX.

Thus, ’midst the horrors of the night,
⁠They enter’d on the houseless heath;
Above their heads no comfort broke.
⁠Nor round about, nor underneath.

XXI.

No little cheering star they saw,
⁠To light them on their dreary way;
Nor yet the distant twinkling blaze
⁠Of cottage industry saw they.

XXII.

Nay, e’en that most officious guide
⁠Of those who roam and those who mope;
Retiring Will-o -th’-Wisp, refus’d
⁠To trim the lamp of treach’rous hope.

XXIII.

Nor parish bell was heard to strike,
⁠The hour of “tardy-gaited night;”
No noise—but winds and screams of those
⁠Ill-omen’d birds that shun the light.

XXIV.

Benumb’d at length his stiff’ning joints,
⁠His tongue to Tray cou’d scarcely speak;
His tears congeal’d to icicles
⁠His hair hung clatt’ring ’gainst his cheek.

XXV.

As thus he felt his fault’ring limbs
⁠Give omen of approaching death,
Aurora from her eastern hill
⁠Rush’d forth, and flay’d his fleeting breath;

XXVI.

And shew’d to his imperfect fight
⁠The harmless cause of all his wo!
His little lambkin, cold and stiff!
⁠Stretch’d on its bed of glift’ning snow!

XXVII.

His heart’s best chord was yet in tune,
⁠Unsnapp’d by cold severity;
Touch’d was that chord——his dim eye beam’d
⁠Suffused sensibility.

XXVIII.

“’Tis just! he said, that where thou liest,
⁠“The careless shepherd boy shou’d lie;
“Thou diedst, poor fool! for want of food!
⁠“I fall, for suffering thee to die.

XXIX.

“But oh, my master!”——broken——short
⁠“Was every half-word now he spoke——.
“Severe has been, thy constant will,
⁠“And galling sure thy heavy yoke.

XXX.

“But yet ‘ in all my best’ have I
⁠“Without a ’plaint my hardships bore;
“Rufus!——may all my pangs be past——
⁠“Master!——my sufferings are no more!

XXXI.

“A warmer couch hast thou to press,
⁠“Secure from cramping frosts thy feet;
“And cou’dst thou boast so free a breast,
⁠“Thou yet might’ft die a death as sweet.

XXXII.

“My trusty dog——that wistful look
⁠“Is all that makes my poor heart heave;
⁠“But hie thee home,——proclaim me dead,
“Forget to think — and cease to grieve.”

XXXIII.

So saying, shrunk the hapless youth,
⁠Beneath the chilling grasp of death;
And, clasping poor Tray’s shaggy neck,
⁠Sigh’d gently forth his parting breath.

XXXIV.

His faithful, fond, sagacious dog,
⁠Hung watchful o’er his master’s clay;
And many a moan the old fool made,
⁠And many a thing he strove to say.

XXXV.

He paw’d him with his hard-worn foot,
⁠He lick’d him with his scarce warm tongue;
His cold nose strove to catch his breath,
⁠As to his clos’d lips close it clung.

XXXVI.

But not a sign of lurking life,
⁠Thro’ all his frame he found to creep;
He knew not what it was to die,
⁠But knew his master did not deep.

XXXVII.

For still had he his slumbers watch’d,
⁠Through many a long and dismal night;
And rous’d him from the pallet hard.
⁠To meet his toil e’er morning light.

XXXVIII.

And well his brain remember’d yet,
⁠He never patter’d tow’rds his bed;
Or lodg’d his long face on his cheek,
⁠But straight he stirr’d, or rais’d his head.

XXXIX.

Yes, he remember’d and with tears,
⁠His loving master’s kind replies;
When dumbly he contriv’d to say,
⁠“The cock has crew’d, my master rise!”

XL.

But now the paw, the scratch, the whine,
⁠To howlings chang’d, alone can tell
The suff'rings of instinctive love,
⁠When fruitless prov’d its simple spell.

XLI.

Great grief assail’d his untaught heart,
⁠And quickly laid its victim low!
His master’s cheek, his pillow cold,
⁠Their common bed the colder snow!

FINIS.