The Poacher's Dog by Irena Szirtes

    'The Poacher’s Dog' was written by a group of longdogs in the 1930s. Its inspiration was Roddy, a deerhound cross whose stealth was legendary in his own lifetime. 

   Poachers' dogs don’t always share song outside their own secretive circles, but all lurchers and longdogs know stories about Roddy. His record for taking game stands unequalled,  though his master was never ever convicted of poaching. 

The Poacher's Dog

  Swift as seconds belting by,

Moonbeams flicker from his eye,

Sifting through the blackest night

Melding, brushed in flecked starlight,

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight -

The Poacher’s Dog.

  By blackened stove

On thick rag-rug, he curls.

All who spy him sleep would swear

He'd lain all night, no single hair

Upon his back had stirred -

Eyes so heavy, front paws crossed,

Every accusation’s lost.

Yet deft, devoid of slightest sound

He swept across His Lordship’s ground -

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight  -

The Poacher’s Dog.

At daybreak, here comes Constable

To the cottage door:

"His Lordship asks if you were seen

Upon his land, beyond the stream?"

"On such a filthy night? Not me,

Why wind shook each and every tree!

The stream? It roared with pouring rain!

Besides," he winks, "My dog is lame!"

Just then, two kindly liquid eyes

Gaze up from rug to Constable.

This dog, a rogue? How could it be?

"You’re right,  he’s lame, it’s plain to see!"

So, when there’s little left to say,

The Constable goes on his way.

"I'm sure," he adds, "You meant no harm,"

(The brace of pheasants on his arm

Swinging gently, like a charm.)

"I'll see you at The Seven Stars,

We'll shoot the breeze and sink two jars

Or more of Mandy’s best."

"Just so: when Roddy’s limp has gone

I'll bring some rabbits to sell on.

My wife, you know, has always said,

'No poacher’s welcome in my bed!

Roddy’s my devoted friend,

You'll keep him safe,  and there’s an end!

Legal game is all I’ll see -

Do as you’re bid, or deal with me!' "

By blackened stove

On thick rag-rug, he curls:

Eyes so heavy, front paws crossed,

Every accusation’s lost.

Yet deft, devoid of slightest sound

He sweeps across His Lordship’s ground - 

Swift as seconds belting by,

Moonbeams flicker from his eye,

Sifting through the blackest night,

Melding, brushed in flecked starlight,

Like a ghost, then out of sight,

Glancing by in soundless flight  -

The Poacher’s Dog.