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 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 his 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 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 show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

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,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholly
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.

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 thro' pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And heaven, 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.

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,
Lost to every gay delight;
Mira, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Mira follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

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,