20 Greatest Poems About Dog

Most of the time, dogs make people feel better; by their cuteness, cleverness, and most importantly, their loyalty. Those are some reasons why there are millions of dog lovers globally, and so am I. My dog provides comfort and safety for my loved ones and me.

If you’re a dog lover too, here are twenty (20) greatest poems about a dog that you would like.

Keep reading!

The Dog


The Dog is black or white or brown
And sometimes spotted like a clown.
He loves to make a foolish noise
And Human Company enjoys.


The Human People pat his head
And teach him to pretend he’s dead,
And beg, and fetch and carry too;
Things that no well-bred Cat will do.


At Human jokes, however stale,
He jumps about and wags his tail,
And Human People clap their hands
And think he really understands.

They say “Good Dog” to him. To us
They say “Poor Puss,” and make no fuss.
Why Dogs are “good” and Cats are “poor”
I fail to understand, I’m sure.


To Someone very Good and Just,
Who has proved worthy of her trust,
A Cat will _sometimes_ condescend–
The Dog is Everybody’s friend.

Oliver Herford

The Dog.


HERE is the Dog. Since time be-gan,
The Dog has been the friend of MAN,
The Dog loves MAN be-cause he shears
His coat and clips his tail and ears.
MAN loves the Dog be-cause he’ll stay
And lis-ten to his talk all day,
And wag his tail and show de-light
At all his jokes, how-ev-er trite.
His bark is far worse than his bite,
So peo-ple say. They may be right;
Yet if to make a choice I had,
I’d choose his bark, how-ev-er bad.

Oliver Herford

The Dog.


Of all the speechless friends of man
The faithful dog I deem
Deserving from the human clan
The tenderest esteem:


This feeling creature form’d to love,
To watch, and to defend,
Was given to man by powers above,
A guardian, and a friend!


I sing, of all e’er known to live
The truest friend canine;
And glory if my verse may give,
Brave Fido! it is thine.


A dog of many a sportive trick,
Tho’ rough and large of limb.
Fido would chase the floating stick
When Lucy cried, “go swim.”


And what command could Lucy give,
Her dog would not obey?
For her it seemed his pride to live,
Blest in her gentle sway!

For conscious of her every care
He strain’d each feeling nerve,
To please that friend, his lady fair
Commanded him to serve.


Of many friends to Lucy dear,
One rose above the rest;
Proclaim’d, in glory’s bright career.
The monarch of her breast.


Tender and brave, her Edward came
To bid his fair adieu;
To India call’d, in honour’s name,
To honour he was true.


The farewell rack’d poor Lucy’s heart,
Nor pain’d her lover less;
And Fido, when he saw them part,
Seem’d full of their distress.

Lucy, who thro’ her tears descried
His sympathetic air,
“Go! with him, Fido!” fondly cried,
“And make his life thy care!”


The dog her order understood,
Or seem’d to understand,
It was his glory to make good
Affection’s kind command.

How he obeyed;–the price how great
His brave obedience cost,
Fancy would faulter to relate,
In wild conjecture lost.


But Truth and Love, the upright pair,
Who witnessed Fido’s worth,
His wond’rous virtue shall declare,
A lesson to the earth!


Not in the battle’s gory tide,
Nor in the stormy seas,
No! Fido’s noble faith was tried
In scenes of sportive ease.


Often in India’s sultry soil
To brace the languid limb,
‘Twas Edward’s pleasure, after toil,
To take a fearless swim.


Bold in a flood he lov’d to leap.
When full the current flow’d;
Nor dreamt the water, dark, and deep.
The crocodile’s abode.


And fearless he and Fido oft,
Along the stream would glide;
Their custom from the bank aloft
To vault into the tide!


But once, when Edward had begun
To cast his clothes aside,
Round him his dog would anxious run,
And much to check him tried.


So much, that had dumb Fido said
“Avoid the stream to day!”
Those words could scarce have plainer made
What duty wish’d to say.


Edward, too eager to enjoy
The sport, where danger lay,
Scolds him for gestures, that annoy,
And beats his guard away:

And naked now, and dreaming not
How cruel was that blow,
He hurries to the lofty spot,
In haste to plunge below,


His faithful friend, with quicker pace,
And now with silent tongue,
Out-stript his master in the race,
And swift before him sprung.


Heaven! how the heart of Edward swell’d
Upon the river’s brink,
When his brave guardian he beheld
A glorious victim sink!


Sink in a watery monster’s jaw,
That near the river’s side
Too late th’ astonish’d Edward saw,
And shriek’d, as Fido died.

In vain he shriek’d; and soon his tears
His heart-felt loss deplore;
“Lucy!” he cries, as if she hears,
“Thy Fido is no more!”


“Calamitously lost, his form,
So often thy delight!
No artist’s hand, with genius warm,
Can rescue for thy sight;”

“But if ’tis sung by friendly bard
How he resign’d his breath;
Thy dog must win the world’s regard,
Immortal in his death!”


‘Twas thus the feeling Edward griev’d,
Nor could his grief divine,
What honours, by pure love conceived,
Brave Fido, would be thine!


When Lucy heard of Fido’s fate,
What showers of tears she shed!
No cost would she have thought too great
To celebrate the dead.

But gold had not the power to raise
A semblance of her friend;
Yet kind compassion, who surveys,
Soon bids her sorrow end.


A sculptor, pity’s genuine son!
Knew her well-founded grief;
And quickly, tho’ he promised none,
Gave her the best relief;

He, rich in Lucy’s sister’s heart,
By love and friendship’s aid,
Of Fido, with the happiest art,
A secret statue made.


By stealth in Lucy’s chamber plac’d,
It charm’d the mourner there,
Till Edward, with new glory grac’d,
Rejoin’d his faithful fair.

The marble Fido in their sight,
Enhanc’d their nuptial bliss;
And Lucy every morn, and night,
Gave him a grateful kiss.

William Hayley

The Dog


Us two in the room; my dog and me…. Outside a fearful storm is howling.


The dog sits in front of me, and looks me straight in the face.

And I, too, look into his face.


He wants, it seems, to tell me something. He is dumb, he is without words, he does not understand himself – but I understand him.


I understand that at this instant there is living in him and in me the same feeling, that there is no difference between us. We are the same; in each of us there burns and shines the same trembling spark.


Death sweeps down, with a wave of its chill broad wing….


And the end!


Who then can discern what was the spark that glowed in each of us?


No! We are not beast and man that glance at one another….


They are the eyes of equals, those eyes riveted on one another.

And in each of these, in the beast and in the man, the same life huddles up in fear close to the other.


February 1878.

Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Dog


You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,
Asking for that expected walk,
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)
And almost talk.


And so the moment becomes a moving force;
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;
The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course.
You scamper the stairs,
Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark
Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.

We are going OUT. You know the pitch of the word,
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog
And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard)
The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.


Out in the garden your head is already low.
(Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.)
But your limbs can draw
Life from the earth through the touch of your padded paw.

Now, sending a little look to us behind,
Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play,
You carry our bodies forward away from mind
Into the light and fun of your useless day.


* * * * *


Thus, for your walk, we took ourselves, and went
Out by the hedge and the tree to the open ground.
You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent,
Over the hill without seeing the view;
Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you:
To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely found.


Home … and further joy will be surely there:
Supper waiting full of the taste of bone.
You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare
For the rapture known
Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down
While your people talk above you in the light
Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown
Into the bed-delicious hours of night.

Harold Edward Monro

The Dog And Cat.


A dog and cat, messmates for life,
Were often falling into strife,
Which came to scratching, growls, and snaps,
And spitting in the face, perhaps.
A neighbour dog once chanced to call
Just at the outset of their brawl,
And, thinking Tray was cross and cruel,
To snarl so sharp at Mrs. Mew-well,
Growl’d rather roughly in his ear.
‘And who are you to interfere?’
Exclaim’d the cat, while in his face she flew;
And, as was wise, he suddenly withdrew.

It seems, in spite of all his snarling,
And hers, that Tray was still her darling.

Jean de La Fontaine

Dog And Fox.


(To a Lawyer.)


My friend, the sophisticated tongue
Of lawyers can turn right to wrong;
And language, by your skill made pliant,
Can save an undeserving client.
Is it the fee directs the sense
To injure injured innocence?
Or can you, with a double face
Like Janus’s, mistate a case?
Is scepticism your profession,
And justice absent from your session?
And is, e’en so, the bar supplied,
Where eloquence takes either side?


A man can well express his meaning,
Except in law deeds, where your gleaning
Must be first purchased – must be fee’d;
Engrossed, too, the too-prolix deed.
But do we shelter beneath law?
Ay, till your brother finds the flaw.
All wills pass muster, undisputed;
Dispute, and they are soon confuted:
And you, by instinct, flaws discover,
As dogs find coveys in the clover.


Sagacious Porta loved to trace
Likeness to brutes in lordly face –
To ape or owls his sketches liking,
Sent the laugh round – they were so striking.
So would I draw my satire true,
And fix it on myself or you.


But you dissent: you do not like
A portrait that shall rudely strike.
You write no libels on the state,
And party prejudice you hate;
But to assail a private name
You shrink, my friend, and deem it shame.
So be it: yet let me in fable
Knock a knave over; if I am able.
Shall not the decalogue be read,
Because the guilty sit in dread?
Brutes are my theme: am I to blame
If minds are brutish, men the same?
Whom the cap fits, e’en let him wear it –
And we are strong enough to bear it.


A shepherd’s dog, unused to sporting,
Picked up acquaintance, all consorting.
Amongst the rest, a friendship grew
‘Twixt him and Reynard, whom he knew.


Said Reynard: “‘Tis a cruel case
That man will stigmatize my race:
Ah! there are rogues midst men and foxes –
You see that where the parish stocks is.
Still there are honest men and true –
So are there honest foxes too.
You see and know I’ve no disguise,
And that, like life, I honour prize.”


The honest dog threw off distrust,
For talk like that seemed good and just.
On as they went one day with chatter
Of honour and such moral matter,
They heard a tramp. “Are hounds abroad?
I heard a clatter on the road.”


“Nay,” said the dog: “’tis market-day,
Dame Dobbin now is on her way.
That foot is Dun’s, the pyebald mare:
They go to sell their poultry ware.”


“Their poultry ware! Why poultry me?
Sir, your remark is very free.
Do I know your Dame Dobbin’s farm?
Did I e’er do her hen-roost harm?”


“Why, my good friend, I never meant
To give your spirit discontent.
No lamb – for aught I ever knew –
Could be more innocent than you.”


“What do you mean by such a flam?
Why do you talk to me of lamb?
They lost three lambs: you say that I –
I robbed the fold; – you dog, you lie!”


“Knave,” said the dog, “your conscience tweaks:
It is the guilty soul that speaks.”
So saying, on the fox he flies,
The self-convicted felon dies.

John Gay

The Dog And His Image.


A foolish Dog, who carried in his jaw
A juicy bone,
Looked down into a stream, and there he saw
Another one,
Splash! In he plunged.. The image disappeared –
The meat he had was gone.
Indeed, he nearly sank,
And barely reached the bank.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Dog And His Master’s Dinner.


Our eyes are not made proof against the fair,
Nor hands against the touch of gold.
Fidelity is sadly rare,
And has been from the days of old.
Well taught his appetite to check,
And do full many a handy trick,
A dog was trotting, light and quick,
His master’s dinner on his neck.
A temperate, self-denying dog was he,
More than, with such a load, he liked to be.
But still he was, while many such as we
Would not have scrupled to make free.
Strange that to dogs a virtue you may teach,
Which, do your best, to men you vainly preach!
This dog of ours, thus richly fitted out,
A mastiff met, who wish’d the meat, no doubt.
To get it was less easy than he thought:
The porter laid it down and fought.
Meantime some other dogs arrive:
Such dogs are always thick enough,
And, fearing neither kick nor cuff,
Upon the public thrive.
Our hero, thus o’ermatch’d and press’d, –
The meat in danger manifest, –
Is fain to share it with the rest;
And, looking very calm and wise,
“No anger, gentlemen,” he cries:
“My morsel will myself suffice;
The rest shall be your welcome prize.”
With this, the first his charge to violate,
He snaps a mouthful from his freight.
Then follow mastiff, cur, and pup,
Till all is cleanly eaten up.
Not sparingly the party feasted,
And not a dog of all but tasted.


In some such manner men abuse
Of towns and states the revenues.
The sheriffs, aldermen, and mayor,
Come in for each a liberal share.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Dog And The Water Lily. No Fable.


The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse’s silent tide,
When, ‘scaped from literary cares,
I wander’d on his side.


My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree
(Two nymphs[1] adorn’d with every grace
That spaniel found for me),


Now wanton’d lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o’er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display’d
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey’d,
And one I wish’d my own.


With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark’d my unsuccessful pains
With fix’d considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.


But with a cherup clear and strong
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow’d long
The windings of the stream.


My ramble ended, I return’d;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern’d,
And plunging, left the shore.


I saw him with that lily cropp’d
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp’d
The treasure at my feet.

Charm’d with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man’s superior breed:
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty’s call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
To Him who gives me all.

William Cowper

The Dog And Thief.


Quoth the thief to the dog, let me into your door
And I’ll give you these delicate bits.
Quoth the dog, I shall then be more villain than you’re,
And besides must be out of my wits.


Your delicate bits will not serve me a meal,
But my master each day gives me bread;
You’ll fly, when you get what you came here to steal,
And I must be hang’d in your stead.


The stockjobber thus from ‘Change Alley goes down,
And tips you the freeman a wink;
Let me have but your vote to serve for the town,
And here is a guinea to drink.


Says the freeman, your guinea to-night would be spent!
Your offers of bribery cease:
I’ll vote for my landlord to whom I pay rent,
Or else I may forfeit my lease.


From London they come, silly people to chouse,
Their lands and their faces unknown:
Who’d vote a rogue into the parliament-house,
That would turn a man out of his own?

Jonathan Swift

Dog-Day Reflections. By A Dandy Kept In Town.


“vox clamantis in deserto.”

Said Malthus one day to a clown
Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,–
“What’s the number of souls in this town?”–
“The number! Lord bless you, there’s none.


“We have nothing but dabs in this place,
“Of them a great plenty there are;–
But the soles, please your reverence and grace,
“Are all t’other side of the bar.”

And so ’tis in London just now,
Not a soul to be seen up or down;–
Of dabs? a great glut, I allow,
But your soles, every one, out of town.


East or west nothing wondrous or new,
No courtship or scandal worth knowing;
Mrs. B—, and a Mermaid[1] or two,
Are the only loose fish that are going.

Ah, where is that dear house of Peers
That some weeks ago kept us merry?
Where, Eldon, art thou with thy tears?
And thou with thy sense, Londonderry?


Wise Marquis, how much the Lord Mayor,
In the dog-days, with thee must be puzzled!–
It being his task to take care
That such animals shan’t go unmuzzled.

Thou too whose political toils
Are so worthy a captain of horse–
Whose amendments[2] (like honest Sir Boyle’s)
Are “amendments, that make matters worse;”[3]


Great Chieftain, who takest such pains
To prove–what is granted, nem. con.–
With how moderate a portion of brains
Some heroes contrive to get on.

And thou too my Redesdale, ah! where
Is the peer with a star at his button,
Whose quarters could ever compare
With Redesdale’s five quarters of mutton?[4]


Why, why have ye taken your flight,
Ye diverting and dignified crew?
How ill do three farces a night,
At the Haymarket, pay us for you!

For what is Bombastes to thee,
My Ellenbro’, when thou look’st big
Or where’s the burletta can be
Like Lauderdale’s wit and his wig?


I doubt if even Griffinhoof[5] could
(Tho’ Griffin’s a comical lad)
Invent any joke half so good
As that precious one, “This is too bad!”

Then come again, come again Spring!
Oh haste thee, with Fun in thy train;
And–of all things the funniest–bring
These exalted Grimaldis again!

Thomas Moore

The Dog In The Manger


A Cow sought a mouthful of hay;
But a Dog in the manger there lay,
And he snapped out “how now?”
When most mildly, the Cow
Adventured a morsel to pray.


Don’t Be Selfish

Walter Crane

The Dog That Carried His Master’s Dinner.


Our eyes are not made proof against the fair,
Nor hands against the touch of gold.
Fidelity is sadly rare,
And has been from the days of old.
Well taught his appetite to check,
And do full many a handy trick,
A dog was trotting, light and quick,
His master’s dinner on his neck.
A temperate, self-denying dog was he,
More than, with such a load, he liked to be.
But still he was, while many such as we
Would not have scrupled to make free.
Strange that to dogs a virtue you may teach,
Which, do your best, to men you vainly preach!
This dog of ours, thus richly fitted out,
A mastiff met, who wish’d the meat, no doubt.
To get it was less easy than he thought:
The porter laid it down and fought.
Meantime some other dogs arrive:
Such dogs are always thick enough,
And, fearing neither kick nor cuff,
Upon the public thrive.
Our hero, thus o’ermatch’d and press’d, –
The meat in danger manifest, –
Is fain to share it with the rest;
And, looking very calm and wise,
‘No anger, gentlemen,’ he cries:
‘My morsel will myself suffice;
The rest shall be your welcome prize.’
With this, the first his charge to violate,
He snaps a mouthful from his freight.
Then follow mastiff, cur, and pup,
Till all is cleanly eaten up.
Not sparingly the party feasted,
And not a dog of all but tasted.


In some such manner men abuse
Of towns and states the revenues.
The sheriffs, aldermen, and mayor,
Come in for each a liberal share.
The strongest gives the rest example:
‘Tis sport to see with what a zest
They sweep and lick the public chest
Of all its funds, however ample.
If any commonweal’s defender
Should dare to say a single word,
He’s shown his scruples are absurd,
And finds it easy to surrender –
Perhaps, to be the first offender.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Dog That Dropped The Substance For The Shadow.


This world is full of shadow-chasers,
Most easily deceived.
Should I enumerate these racers,
I should not be believed.
I send them all to Aesop’s dog,
Which, crossing water on a log,
Espied the meat he bore, below;
To seize its image, let it go;
Plunged in; to reach the shore was glad,
With neither what he hoped, nor what he’d had.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Dog & The Shadow


His image the Dog did not know,
Or his bone’s, in the pond’s painted show:
“T’other dog,” so he thought
“Has got more than he ought,”
So he snapped, & his dinner saw go!


Greed Is Sometimes Caught By Its Own Bait

Walter Crane

The Dog Whose Ears Were Cropped.


‘What have I done, I’d like to know,
To make my master maim me so?
A pretty figure I shall cut!
From other dogs I’ll keep, in kennel shut.
Ye kings of beasts, or rather tyrants, ho!
Would any beast have served you so?’
Thus Growler cried, a mastiff young; –
The man, whom pity never stung,
Went on to prune him of his ears.
Though Growler whined about his losses,
He found, before the lapse of years,
Himself a gainer by the process;
For, being by his nature prone
To fight his brethren for a bone,
He’d oft come back from sad reverse
With those appendages the worse.
All snarling dogs have ragged ears.


The less of hold for teeth of foe,
The better will the battle go.
When, in a certain place, one fears
The chance of being hurt or beat,
He fortifies it from defeat.
Besides the shortness of his ears,
See Growler arm’d against his likes
With gorget full of ugly spikes.
A wolf would find it quite a puzzle
To get a hold about his muzzle.

Jean de La Fontaine

A Dog’s Death


The loose earth falls in the grave like a peaceful regular breathing;
Too like, for I was deceived a moment by the sound:
It has covered the heap of bracken that the gardener laid above him;
Quiet the spade swings: there we have now his mound.


A patch of fresh earth on the floor of the wood’s renewing chamber:
All around is grass and moss and the hyacinth’s dark green sprouts:
And oaks are above that were old when his fiftieth sire was a puppy:
And far away in the garden I hear the children’s shouts.


Their joy is remote as a dream. It is strange how we buy our sorrow
For the touch of perishing things, idly, with open eyes;
How we give our hearts to brutes that will die in a few seasons,
Nor trouble what we do when we do it; nor would have it otherwise.

John Collings Squire, Sir

A Dog’s Mistake


In Doggerel Verse


He had drifted in among us as a straw drifts with the tide,
He was just a wand’ring mongrel from the weary world outside;
He was not aristocratic, being mostly ribs and hair,
With a hint of spaniel parents and a touch of native bear.


He was very poor and humble and content with what he got,
So we fed him bones and biscuits, till he heartened up a lot;
Then he growled and grew aggressive, treating orders with disdain,
Till at last he bit the butcher, which would argue want of brain.

Now the butcher, noble fellow, was a sport beyond belief,
And instead of bringing actions he brought half a shin of beef,
Which he handed on to Fido, who received it as a right
And removed it to the garden, where he buried it at night.


‘Twas the means of his undoing, for my wife, who’d stood his friend,
To adopt a slang expression, “went in off the deepest end”,
For among the pinks and pansies, the gloxinias and the gorse
He had made an excavation like a graveyard for a horse.

Then we held a consultation which decided on his fate:
‘Twas in anger more than sorrow that we led him to the gate,
And we handed him the beef-bone as provision for the day,
Then we opened wide the portal and we told him, “On your way.”

Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

The Dogs’ Welcome


Hush! We’re not a pack of boys
Always bound to make a noise.
True, there’s one amongst us, but
He is young;
And, wherever we may take him,
We can generally shut
Such a youngster up and make him
Hold his tongue.


Hush! Most cautiously we go
On the tippest tip of toe.
Are the dogs expecting us
At the gate?
Two, who usually prize us,
Will they jump and make a fuss?
Will they really recognise us
Where they wait?


Hush! I hear the funny pair
Softly whimpering – yes, they’re there.
Dane and Pekinese, they scratch
At the wood,
At the solid wood between us;
Duke attempts to lift the latch;
It’s a month since they have seen us –
Open! Good!

Down, Duke, down! Enough, enough!
Soo-Ti’s screaming; seize his scruff.
Soo-Ti’s having fearful fits;
Duke is tearing us to bits.
One will trip us, one will throw us –
But, the darlings, don’t they know us!


Then off with a clatter the long dog leapt, and, oh, what a race he ran,
At the hurricane pace of a minute a mile, as only a long dog can.
Into and out of the bushes he pierced like a shooting star;
And now he thundered around us, and now he was whirling far.
And the little dog gazed till he seemed amazed, and then he took to it too;
With shrill notes flung from his pert pink tongue right after his friend he flew;
And the long legs lashed and the short legs flashed and scurried like anything,
While Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran in a ring.


And last they hurtled amongst us, and then there were tales to tell,
For all of us seemed to be scattered and torn, and all of us shrieked and fell;
And John, who is plump, got an awful bump, and Helen, who’s tall and thin,
Was shot through a shrub and gained in bruise as much as she lost in skin;
And Rosamond’s frock was rent in rags, and tattered in strips was Peg’s,
And both of them suffered the ninepin fate to the ruin of arms and legs;
And every face was licked by a dog, and battered was every limb,
When Duke ran round in a circle and Soo-Ti ran after him.

R. C. Lehmann

So, here is the greatest compilation of poems about dog.

Let me know which one is your favorite! 😉

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