AN ELEGY ON A MAD DOG.

Good patriots all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

For if in substance it is short,

In moral it is strong.

At Hawarden lived a Grand Old Man,

Of whom the world might say,

A wondrous lengthy race he ran,

And won it all the way.

Some swore he'd veer to catch a vote;

Old age to flout one loathes,

But, if he never turned his coat,

He often changed his clothes.

Hard by an Irish dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Hibernian mongrel, puppy, hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first seemed friends,

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man!

To see so strange and sad a sight

Quidnuncs and gobemouches ran,

And swore the dog was rabid quite

To bite that Grand Old Man.

The wound indeed seemed sore and sad

To every party eye,

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man must die.

But marvels sometimes come to light

Rash prophets to belie.

The man seems healing of the bite,

The dog looks like to die!