RAGS

 Author: Edmund Vance Cooke

 

We called him "Rags." He was just a cur,

But twice on the Western Line,

That little old bunch old faithful fur

Had offered his life for mine.

 

And all that he got was bones and bread,

Or the leavings of soldier grub,

But he’d give his heart for a pat on the head,

Or a friendly tickle and rub.

  

And Rags got home with the regiment,

And then, in the breaking away –

Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went,

I am not prepared to say.

 

But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel,

And some to sherry and shad,

And I went back to the Sawbones School,

Where I still was an undergrad.

 

One day they took us budding MD’s

To one of those institutes

Where they demonstrate every new disease

By means of bisected brutes.

 

They had one animal tacked and tied

And slit like a full - dressed fish,

With his vitals pumping away inside

As pleasant as one might wish.

 

I stopped to look like the rest, of course,

And the beast’s eyes leveled with mine,

His short tail thumped with a feeble force,

And he uttered a tender whine.

 

It was Rags, yes Rags! Who was martyred there,

Who was quartered and crucified,

And he whined that whine which is a doggish prayer

And he licked my hand - and died.

 

And I was no better in part nor whole

Than the gang I was found among,

And his innocent blood was on the soul

Which he blessed with his dying tongue.

 

Well ! I have seen men go to courageous death,

In the air, on sea, on land !

But only a dog would spend his breath

In a kiss from his murderer’s hand.

 

And if there is no heaven for love like that,

For such four-legged fealty- well !

If I have any choice, I tell you flat,

I’ll take my chance in hell.

by Edmund Vance Cooke