AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.37

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.