AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. Good people all, of every sort, In Islington there was a man, A kind and gentle heart he had, And in that town a dog was found; 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 his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighboring streets, And swore the dog had lost his wits, The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, And while they swore the dog was mad, But soon a wonder came to light, THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROT was desired 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 graces, As I hope to be sav'd, without thinking on asses,' Edinburgh, 1753. STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name, STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her soul piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of wo, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead; Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. A SONNET. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection, SIR, LETTER. I send you a small production of the late Dr. Gold smith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not se cured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of 'She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called 'The humors of Bal. amagairy,' to which he told me he found it very diffi cult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very hap pily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little appre hending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affection ate care. I am, Sir, Your humble servant, JAMES BOSWELL, |