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,
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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;
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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,
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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.
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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,
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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.