THEY CALLED HIM 'RAGS' - EDMUND VANCE COOKE...

                                            

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

                                      But twice, on the Western Line,

                                      That little old bunch of 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 M.D.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 levelled 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 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've seen men go to courageous death

                                       In the air, on sea, on land!

                                       But only a dog would spend his breath

                                       In a kiss for his murderer's hand.

                                       And if there's 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.