I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
-- "Lone Dog," by Irene Rutherford McLeod (1891 - 1960s). She's fallen out of fashion, so very little biographical information exists on McLeod. But I recall reading this poem as a little girl and being oddly beguiled by the dog's fierce independence. This poem was included in a collection named Modern British Poetry in 1920, so written around then.