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.

                        [Illustration]
                        [Illustration]
                        [Illustration]

                    In Islington there lived a man,
                      Of whom the world might say,
                    That still a godly race he ran,
                      Whene'er he went to pray.

                        [Illustration]
                        [Illustration]
                        [Illustration]
                        [Illustration]