r Dick,' cried Bill my
youngest, 'is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr Williams has taught
me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, pappa. Which song do you
chuse, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the death of a mad dog?' 'The
elegy, child, by all means,' said I, 'I never heard that yet; and
Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the
best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at
all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure
this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in
with the boy a little.'

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 wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Isling town 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 cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mungrel,
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 some private ends, Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours 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 shew'd the rogues they lied, The
man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that dy'd.

'A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that may truly be
called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one
day be a bishop.'

'With all my heart,' cried my wife; 'and if he but preaches as well
as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the
mother's side, could sing a good song: it was a common saying in our
country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look strait
before them, nor the Huginsons blow out a candle; that there were none
of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could
tell a story.'--'However that be,' cried I, 'the most vulgar ballad
of them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and
things that petrify us in a single stanza; productions that we at once
detest and praise. Put the gla