_Oliver Goldsmith_.

_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.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a G.o.dly 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.

The 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 neighboring streets, The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed 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 showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died.

_Oliver Goldsmith_.

_THE WONDERFUL OLD MAN_

There was an old man Who lived on a common And, if fame speaks true, He was born of a woman.

Perhaps you will laugh, But for truth I've been told He once was an infant Tho' age made him old.

Whene'er he was hungry He longed for some meat; And if he could get it 'T was said he would eat.

When thirsty he'd drink If you gave him a pot, And what he drank mostly Ran down his throat.

He seldom or never Could see without light, And yet I've been told he Could hear in the night.

He has oft been awake In the daytime, 't is said, And has fallen asleep As he lay in his bed.

'T is reported his tongue Always moved when he talk'd, And he stirred both his arms And his legs when he walk'd; And his gait was so odd Had you seen him you 'd burst, For one leg or t' other Would always be first.

His face was the drollest That ever was seen, For if 't was not washed It seldom was clean; His teeth he expos'd when He happened to grin, And his mouth stood across 'Twixt his nose and his chin.

When this whimsical chap Had a river to pa.s.s, If he couldn't get over He stayed where he was.

'T is said he ne'er ventured To quit the dry ground, Yet so great was his luck He never was drowned.

At last he fell sick, As old chronicles tell, And then, as folks say, He was not very well.

But what was as strange In so weak a condition, As he could not give fees He could get no physician.

What wonder he died!

Yet 't is said that his death Was occasioned at last By the loss of his breath.

But peace to his bones Which in ashes now moulder.

Had he lived a day longer He'd have been a day older.

_Anonymous_

_A CHRONICLE_

Once--but no matter when-- There lived--no matter where-- A man, whose name--but then I need not that declare.

He--well, he had been born, And so he was alive; His age--I details scorn-- Was somethingty and five.

He lived--how many years I truly can't decide; But this one fact appears He lived--until he died.

"He died," I have averred, But cannot prove 't was so, But that he was interred, At any rate, I know.

I fancy he'd a son, I hear he had a wife: Perhaps he'd more than one, I know not, on my life!

But whether he was rich, Or whether he was poor, Or neither--both--or which, I cannot say, I'm sure.

I can't recall his name, Or what he used to do: But then--well, such is fame!

'T will so serve me and you.

And that is why I thus, About this unknown man Would fain create a fuss, To rescue, if I can.

From dark oblivion's blow, Some record of his lot: But, ah! I do not know Who--where--when--why--or what.

MORAL

In this brief pedigree A moral we should find-- But what it ought to be Has quite escaped my mind!

_Anonymous_.

_ON THE OXFORD CARRIER_

Here lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny never to rot While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Made of sphere metal, never to decay Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time, And like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight.

Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm, Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.

Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers."

Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome.

That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;"

But, had his doings lasted as they were, He had been an immortal carrier.

Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all, and gone, Only remains the superscription.