Lone Dog

Irene Rutherford Mcleod (1891 – 1968)

I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog and lone;

I’m a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own.

I’m a bad dog, a mad dog,  teasing silly sheep.

I love to sit and bay the moon to keep fat souls from sleep.

I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet.

A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat.

Not for me the fireside, a well filled plate.

But shut door and sharp stone and cuff and kick and hate.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side.

Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide;

O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best.

Wide wind and wild stars and the hunger of the quest.

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