AN

ELEGY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Grood people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wonderous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Isling-town 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.

ELEGY ON A MAD DOG.

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, 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 ly'd;

The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

EPITAPH

ON

DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
Aud Heav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPITAPH

ON

EDWARD PURDON*.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world—

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers, He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

AN

ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

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 wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

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.