BEHOLD, to kindred dust consign'd,
The prettiest of the barking kind!
Who, long before death made his clay stiff,
Had learn'd more manners than a mastiff;
The growling passions all subdu'd,
Wou'd condescend to beg for's food.
So apt his genius, that with ease
He'd learn to do whate'er you please.
E'en while he lapp'd, did understand
Th' approving look, the patting hand.
None could his gratitude exceed;
fdi tlio' he seldom stood in need,
Whoever gave him, ne'er would fail
Returning thanks, by wagging tail.
O may some pointer guard his tomb,
And shew these lines to all that come.
May ev'ry cur that passes near,
With drooping tail let fall a tear
Be at the sight affected so,
As to cry yelping, Here lies Beau!
The London Magazine, and Monthly Chronologer, Volume 14, Isaac Kimber, ed. (London, 1745), p 252.