SpokenVerse | Epitaph to a Dog by George Gordon, Lord Byron (read by Tom O'Bedlam) @SpokenVerse | Uploaded February 2013 | Updated October 2024, 1 hour ago.
This is taken from a real tombstone at Newstead Abbey. I cleaned it up a bit to make it more readable. I don't mean I went to the Abbey with a scouring pad and bleach.- I used PaintShop Pro.
Religion says that dogs don't have souls. However the great thing about Belief Systems is that you can choose the one that you like best. Canny Vicars, seeing that they might lose customers is they can't have doggies in Heaven, have found a work-around. God is, after all, all-powerful and he did create all things bright and beautiful, plus all creatures great and small. So if your idea of heaven is to be reunited with your dead pets then God will arrange it to be so. Just like that.
You can't have everything that you want in heaven of course because some of the things you want are naughty. Sit on your cloud, play your harp and try to forget cigarettes, booze and all those other things you really like but shouldn't have. What, did you think it was going to be a never-ending orgy?
Victorians were fond of their dogs and the Newfoundland was a particular favourite. Many paintings exist - the ones I used were by Sir Edwin Landseer (1802-1873).
Byron wasn't a Victorian, but he might have been if he'd looked after himself a little better. He died aged 36 about 13 years before Victoria became queen. He seemed eager to demonstrate that intelligence and talent doesn't stop you from being a jackass - if anything, his good-looks and conspicuous talents increased his capacity for jack-assery.
He probably had cerebral palsy. He was lame because he had a withered leg, not a club foot. When he was a child, his mother put him through a hell of harsh treatments by quacks. Maybe that's an explanation for some of his strange behaviour. More poems and biography here:
tinyurl.com/bhwhoou
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808.
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below:
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth,
Deny'd in heaven the Soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.
This is taken from a real tombstone at Newstead Abbey. I cleaned it up a bit to make it more readable. I don't mean I went to the Abbey with a scouring pad and bleach.- I used PaintShop Pro.
Religion says that dogs don't have souls. However the great thing about Belief Systems is that you can choose the one that you like best. Canny Vicars, seeing that they might lose customers is they can't have doggies in Heaven, have found a work-around. God is, after all, all-powerful and he did create all things bright and beautiful, plus all creatures great and small. So if your idea of heaven is to be reunited with your dead pets then God will arrange it to be so. Just like that.
You can't have everything that you want in heaven of course because some of the things you want are naughty. Sit on your cloud, play your harp and try to forget cigarettes, booze and all those other things you really like but shouldn't have. What, did you think it was going to be a never-ending orgy?
Victorians were fond of their dogs and the Newfoundland was a particular favourite. Many paintings exist - the ones I used were by Sir Edwin Landseer (1802-1873).
Byron wasn't a Victorian, but he might have been if he'd looked after himself a little better. He died aged 36 about 13 years before Victoria became queen. He seemed eager to demonstrate that intelligence and talent doesn't stop you from being a jackass - if anything, his good-looks and conspicuous talents increased his capacity for jack-assery.
He probably had cerebral palsy. He was lame because he had a withered leg, not a club foot. When he was a child, his mother put him through a hell of harsh treatments by quacks. Maybe that's an explanation for some of his strange behaviour. More poems and biography here:
tinyurl.com/bhwhoou
Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.
This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18th, 1808.
When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,
Unknown to Glory but upheld by Birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below:
When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen
Not what he was, but what he should have been.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth,
Deny'd in heaven the Soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who behold perchance this simple urn,
Pass on, it honors none you wish to mourn.
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one—and here he lies.
