Lincoln Telegraph

ORIGINAL POETRY.

FOR THE TELEGRAPH.

CANINE MUSIC.

There's music in the rustling trees,
There's music in the deep,
There's music in the whistling breeze,
To make the young heart leap.

But I have heard a nobler sound,
And hark! I hear it now,
As on the wind the cries resound,
The cries of bow!--ow!--ow!--

When rent with pain and vexed with care,
At evening's peaceful hour,--
The scenes of anxious strife I leave,
And seek my cottage bower;

How sprightly on the verdant lawns,
Where blooming milk-maids bow,--
The frisking dog from danger warns,
With cries of--bow!--ow-ow!--

When marching through the distant way,
The trav'ler hurries by;
And chancing from his path to stray,
Lies down at last to die;--

His faithful mastiff onward springs
Fast as his powers allow,
And succor to his master brings,
With cries of--bow!--ow!--ow!--

When the base villain takes his all,
And leaves him to his fate;
Or when upon him murd'rers fall,
And aid must be too late;--

When want and woe and death betide,--
To ease his aching brow,
His long-tried dog is at his side,
And utters--bow!--ow!--ow!--

But cease my pen, my music cease,
It cannot hope to vie
With that which wakes such conscious peace,
When frisking Pomp is nigh.

Come Pompy, pretty Pompy, come;
Politely make a bow,
And though to human accents dumb,
Strike up your--bow!--ow!--ow!--

S. B. G.