Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog
by Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774)

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,
⁠   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
⁠   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 shew’d the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of his bite,
⁠   The dog it was that died.

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