by Winifred Mary Letts
It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now:
Small as a flea or large as a cow;
But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet
By any dog that he ever met,
Come on 'says he'for I'm not kilt yet!
No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,
Tim trails his coat the length o'the street.
D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear,
The like of a Dublin Fusilier?
He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.
But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath;
An'he'd go with me to the gates of death.
He'd wait a thousand years,maybe,
Scratching the door an'whining for me
If myself were inside in Purgatory.
So I laugh when I hear them make it plain
That dogs and men never meet again.
For all their talk who'd listen to them
With the soul in the shining eyes of him?
Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?
Last updated October 11, 2017