AN

ELEGY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG. *

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was 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 cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This

This, and the following Poem, appeared in The Vicar of

Wakefield, which was published in the year 1765.

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 neighb'ring streets,
The wond'ring 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,
Το 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 shew'd the rogues they ly'd;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that dy'd.

STANZAS

ON

WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom-is to die.

THE

TRAVELLER;

OR,

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

A

POEM,

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXV.