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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.

And in that town a dog was found,


many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

1 See Vicar of Wakefield, c. xvii.

In the Citizen of the World, vol. ii. lett. lxvi. is a paper on the Epidemic Terror, the dread of mad dogs, which now prevails: the whole nation is now actually groaning under the malignity of its influence.'

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 people 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.


GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind:
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways ·
Unless when she was sinning.

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At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her
When she has walk'd before.

1 See The Bee, No. iv.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more
She had not died to-day.2

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2 This poem [as well as the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog] is an imitation of the chanson called 'Le fameux la Galisse, homme imaginaire,' in fifty stanzas, printed in the Ménagiana, iv. 191:

'Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir

L'air du fameux la Galisse,

Il pourra vous réjouir,

Pourvû qu'il vous divertisse

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JOHN TROTT was desir'd by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears. 'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters: Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your

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As I hope to be sav'd!—without thinking on


Edinburgh, 1753.

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