The Soul's Quest and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott




YOU’RE only a dumb little dog, Jack,
    About ten or twelve pounds or so,
And your wits must be all in a fog, Jack,
    If you have any wits, I know.

But you’ve two such soft brown eyes, Jack,

    And such long grey silky hair;
And, what very much more I prize, Jack,
    Such a warm little heart in there.

They say warm hearts are rare, Jack,
    And I almost believe that it’s true;

But there ar’n’t many hearts can compare, Jack,
    With that staunch little heart in you.

Of course, we that speak and can read, Jack,
    Have plenty of friendships sweet;
But, in spite of them all, there’s a need, Jack,

    For a friend like the friend at my feet.

This planet must seem a queer place, Jack,
    To your poor little limited mind;
For I fancy you never can trace, Jack,
    The reasons for half that you find.


You’re not bothered with questions like us, Jack,
    About forces and morals and laws;
And you never get worried or fuss, Jack,
    When you cannot discover a cause.

But you go your own little way, Jack,

    With a wag of the tail for a friend;
And in spite of our talk, I dare say, Jack,
    That we don’t do much more in the end.