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. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] 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. [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration]