An Elegy

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people of all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there lived a man,

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran,

Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found:

As many dogs there be—

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran;

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad

To every christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That show’d the rogues they lied—

The man recover’d of the bite;

The dog it was that died.