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.
OLD GRIMES.
Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,— We ne'er shall see him more; He used to wear a long black coat, All buttoned down before.
His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true; His hair was some inclined to gray,— He wore it in a queue.
Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned.
Kind words he ever had for all; He knew no base design; His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline.
He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue.
Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er,— And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more.