The Plains lay bare on the homeward route, <br />And the march was heavy on man and brute; <br />For the Spirit of Drought was on all the land, <br />And the white heat danced on the glowing sand. <br /> <br />The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last, <br />His strength gave out ere the plains were passed, <br />And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid <br />His languid limbs in the nearest shade. <br /> <br />He saved our lives in the years gone by, <br />When no one dreamed of the danger nigh, <br />And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept <br />On the silent camp where the drovers slept. <br /> <br />‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said, <br />As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head; <br />‘’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near, <br />‘And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’ <br /> <br />But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’ <br />As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair; <br />And, strangely vivid, each man descried <br />The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide. <br /> <br />We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across <br />The camping pack of the lightest horse, <br />And raised the dog to his deathbed high, <br />And brought him far ’neath the burning sky. <br /> <br />At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude <br />His eyes grew human with gratitude; <br />And though we parched in the heat that fags, <br />We gave him the last of the water-bags. <br /> <br />The super’s daughter we knew would chide <br />If we left the dog in the desert wide; <br />So we brought him far o’er the burning sand <br />For a parting stroke of her small white hand. <br /> <br />But long ere the station was seen ahead, <br />His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead <br />And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom <br />’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.<br /><br />Henry Lawson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cattle-dog-s-death/
