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 wondrous 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 clothes.

This, and the following poem, appeared in « The Vicar of Wakefield,» which was published in the year 1765.

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 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
Christian eye;

To every

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.

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 every 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 MDCCLXV.