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 lived 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, 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 show'd the rogues they lied —
The man recover'd of the bite;
The dog it was that died.