To an Irish Wolf Hound

Long and grey and gaunt he lies,
A Lincoln among dogs; his eyes,
Deep and clear of sight, appraise
The meaningless and shuffling ways
Of human folk that stop to stare.
One witless woman seeing there
How tired, how contemptuous 
He is of all the smell and fuss
Asks him. "Poor fellow, are you sick?"

Yea, sick, and weary to the quick
Of heat and noise from dawn to dusk.
He will not even stoop to bark
His protest, like the lesser bred.
Would he might know, one gazer read
The wistful longing in his face,
The thirst for wind and open space
And stretch of limbs to him begrudged.
There came a little, dapper, fat
And bustling man, with cane and spat
And pearl-grey vest and derby hat—
Such we’re the judger and the judged!