CXIX AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; In Islington there was a man, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found, 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 his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, R 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, The dog it was that died. O. Goldsmith CXX NONGTONGPAW John Bull for pastime took a prance, John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendour almost struck him dumb. 'I say, whose house is that there here?' 'House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' "What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John; 'This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.' John saw Versailles from Marli's height, 'Whose fine estate is that there here?' On everything he lays his claw! Next tripping came a courtly fair, 'What lovely wench is that there here?' I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw. 'But hold! whose funeral's that?' cries John. I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!' C. Dibdin CXXI POOR DOG TRAY On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away : And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure, When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case, Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? CXXII THE FAITHFUL BIRD The greenhouse is my summer seat; Two goldfinches whose sprightly song They sang as blithe as finches sing But nature works in every breast, The open windows seem'd to invite And Dick, although his way was clear, So, settling on his cage, by play, Nor would he quit that chosen stand, W. Cowper |