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An Elegy On The Death Of A Mad Dog Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74) 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, [...]