Each day when it’s anighing three
Old Dick looks at the clock,
Then proudly brings my stick to me
To mind me of our walk.
And in his doggy rapture he
Does everything but talk.
But since I lack his zip and zest
My old bones often tire;
And so I ventured to suggest
Today we hug the fire.
But with what wailing he expressed
The death of his desire!
He gazed at me with eyes of woe
As if to say: ‘Old boy,
You mustn’t lose your grip, you know,
Let us with laughing joy,
On heath and hill six miles or so
Our legs and lungs employ.’
And then his bark was stilled to a sigh
He flopped upon the floor;
But such a soft old mug am I
I threw awide the door;
So gaily, though the wind was high
We hiked across the moor.