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 labors, fights,
lives, breathes for him alone,
unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
denied 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,
debased 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 smiles hypocrisy, thy
words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
each kindred brute might bid thee blush
for shame. Ye, who perchance behold 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.
- Lord Byron
Inscription on the monument
of his Newfoundland dog