Briard Poems
Briard Puppies
(written 7-1-90 by Jack Wynne)
(Published in Fall 1990 BCA DewClaw)
There are a thousand nose prints                It's time to get a drink now
Upon your window pane.                              The bowl is on the floor.
You clean them off, they reappear                He does not use his tongue at all
Or are you just insane.                                 Just half his nose and more.
The corners of your cupboards                    His ears are glued and standing
Become a teething ring.                                Right now he looks so sweet.
Your home is now his castle                         My God we're in for trouble
For which he is the king.                               When he grows into those feet !
The spots upon the carpet                            So take an old tape measure
Are just some water drool.                            Put marks upon the wall.
It might have been a tinkle                            Your puppy's getting bigger
Or just a little stool.                                      He's almost two feet tall.
So as we train our puppy                              Your neighbors they start talking
His bark the neighbors fear.                          Their friendship WAS so dear.
It really is no mystery                                    It's not a horse you answer
There's a Briard living here !                         There's a Briard living here !

You have an antique table                             For half the time he's trouble
No longer brown - it's white.                          Sometimes he's just a clown.
He drips upon it all day long                          The language it starts growing
You sand and stain all night.                         Stop That ! Be quiet ! Get down !
The language is so easy                                There really isn't anything
Ten thousand times just NO !                        For him you would not do.
At 4 months old this Briard                            Forget that antique table
Is always on the go.                                       Where's my other shoe ?
He's just a little puppy                                   So when the kitchen carpet
Soon all of this will end.                                 Looks like a little lake.
Just call and ask your breeder                      His eyes look up - you're yelling
They used to be your friend.                         You know there's no mistake.
You dial up their number                               That look is warm and loving
The breeder makes it clear.                           So loyal and so dear.
Your sentence is for life I think                      You really can't imagine life
There's a Briard living here !                          Without a Briard here.
The Night Before Christmas
with a Briard
(written 1991 by Jack Wynne
(Published in Winter 1991 BCA DewClaw)
Twas the night before Christmas,                He was dressed all in red,
And all through the yard.                             From his head to his toe.
There were large chewed up sticks,            And the pain from his crotch,
From your lovely Briard.                              It was starting to show.

His chew sock was hung,                            The stem of his pipe,
By the chimney with care.                           He had bitten right off !
In hopes that St. Nick,                                 The Briard was growling,
Would know to beware !                              Santa ! Don't even cough.

The children were tired,                               He spoke not a word,
All snug in their beds.                                  Taking gifts from his sack.
With visions of Briards,                               While guarding his groin,
Licking their heads.                                     From a Briard attack.   

And mama in her P.J.'s,                               He filled the chew sock,
The blue ones I think.                                  Then turned with a jerk.
Get up ! It's your turn,                                 He held out a treat,
Give the Briard a drink !                              But that did not work !

And the moon on the crest,                         Then laying a finger,
Of the new fallen snow.                               Aside of his nose.
Had covered his sticks,                               As he shifted his leg,
But he'll find them you know.                      The Briard's head rose.

Then out in the den,                                    His eyes how they twinkled,
We heard a loud noise.                                His cheeks were quite pale.
I jumped out of bed,                                    He grabbed the dog's head,
And tripped on his toys.                              But instead he got tail.

Away to the doorway,                                  That little old driver,
I flew like a comet.                                       No longer lively or quick.
But the door would not open,                      A Briard's no match,
Cause the Briard was on it.                          For good ol' St. Nick.

I opened the door,                                        Then he limped toward the sleigh,
And the Briard ran quick.                              To his team gave a shout.
It's now Christmas eve,                                 He never had a chance,
So it must be St. Nick.                                   Before the Briard got out !

Then what to my wondering                          But I heard him exclaim,
eye now appears ?                                        As he ran and broke loose.
But a pair of short legs,                                "I love Christmas turkey,
And between them 2 ears !                            But NOT Briard goose ! "
Briard Christmas Carols
(written 1992 by Jack Wynne)
(Published in the January 1993 Briard Monthly Journal)
                                                   "Jingle Bells"

CHORUS:       Big black nose, 12 rear toes, cropped ears look so fine,
                      Oh what fun, it is to know, this Briard bitch is mine.
                      Undercoat, will get your goat, don't let it get you down,
                      Oh what fun, it is to see, 2 Briards clown around.

Dashing through the snow, our pup is on the way,
Over the fields we go, she's coming home today.
We'll bring her home with us, if everything is right,
Oh what fun, to finally have, a Briard bitch tonight, Oh!

                  CHORUS

A year or 2 ago, I thought I'd fill the yard,
With one big hairy ball, a puppy dog Briard.
And now some time has past, it's time to make it 2,
Oh what fun, with 2 Briards, you're never ever blue, Oh!

                  CHORUS
"To Brie, Or Not to Brie"
(written 1995 by Brimsley)
(Published in a 1995 issue of Briard Monthly Journal)
Tis the elephant's tale,                             He butts you and herds you,
That they never forget.                             Right into the wall.
And the Briard, I know,                             You're tired and hurting,
Must be 2nd I'll bet !                                 HE'S having a ball ! !
With lessons they learn,                           As quick as the lightning,
Be they wrong or they right.                     He really is fast !
They learn them quite quickly,                  Your energy dwindles,
Sometimes at first sight !                          You just may not last !

With teddy bear looks,                              Sometimes they are angels,
That some people can find.                       Do really quite well.
I really can't see past,                               At night it's like heaven,
This tawny behind !                                  But mornings are HELL ! !
A heart wrapped in fur,                             At times they ignore you,
That's what we are told.                           Get under your skin.
No shyness revealed,                               They're off in their own world,
Their actions are bold !                             And won't let you in !

That noble appearence,                            Twas then I did notice,
Their style, their grace.                             The Briard looked good !
Except by their food bowl,                        They're really much smarter,
When filling their face !                             Than dogs from the hood.
A sip of the water,                                     Their brilliant deductions,
They drip on the floor.                               More answers they find.
Now wipe on your blue jeans,                    It's their way not your way,
Then run out the door !                             They now own your mind !

When drink time is over,                            No funnier sight,
No water is there.                                       You ever will see.
Two gallons are missing,                           Than quaint little head butts,
And soaked in their hair !                          My wet jeans and me !
To dry off their whiskers,                          Cause one Briard playtime,
Your pants are quite nice.                          You will never forget.
You yell at them "Stop it !"                         By just owning Briards,
But did not yell twice.                                 You ASKED to be wet ! !
The Briard
(written 8-10-95 by Jack Wynne)
(Published in ABB Magazine 1-1996)
There once was a dog, from the province of Brie.
So headstrong a dog, presumed stubborn was he.
A lifelong companion to owner and friend.
Devotional bonding that never will end.

A breed built for herding of sheep, ducks and goat.
So rugged their structure, so massive their coat.
You never will find a more comparable breed.
Especially one that can talk, think and read !

They sit and they listen, to hear master's voice.
To hear you or not, it is really their choice.
In silence they ponder, think everything out.
They know of your planning without any doubt.

Observing your movements, but speak not a word.
If troubled by something, their voice WILL be heard.
The silence has ended, you scream out their name.
Now try to convince them, that this is no game !

Some people will see them, and start to compare.
That heart wrapped in fur, to a stuffed teddy bear.
Not one better breed, will you find in this town.
Than his hairy shepherd, this fur covered clown.
                          The Briard.
All poems about Briards are welcomed on this page.
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