William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
An Elegy on the Death of a Mad DogOliver Goldsmith (17301774)
G
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,—
It cannot hold you long.
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,—
Whene’er he went to pray.
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,—
When he put on his clothes.
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
To every Christian eye;
And, while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
That show’d the rogues they lied:
The man recover’d of the bite,
The dog it was that died.