Poor Irus’ faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master’s steps,
His guide and guard:  nor, while my service lasted,
Had he occasion for that staff, with which
He now goes picking out his path in fear
Over the highways and crossings; but would plant,
Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
A firm foot forward still, till he had reach’d
His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
Of passers by in thickest confluence flow’d: 
To whom with loud and passionate laments
From morn to eve his dark estate he wail’d. 
Nor wail’d to all in vain:  some here and there,
The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave. 
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
Prick’d up at his least motion; to receive
At his kind hand ray customary crums,
And common portion in his feast of scraps;
Or when night warn’d us homeward, tired and spent
With our long day and tedious beggary.

  These were my manners, this my way of life,
  Till age and slow disease me overtook,
  And sever’d from my sightless master’s side. 
  But lest the grace of so good deeds should die. 
  Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
  This slender tomb of turf hath Irus reared,
  Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
  And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
  In long and lasting union to attest,
  The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a well-known figure, or part of the figure, of a man, who used to glide his comely upper half over the pavements of London, wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a machine of wood; a spectacle to natives, to foreigners, and to children.  He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like complexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sunshine.  He was a natural curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple.  The infant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his own level.  The common cripple would despise his own pusillanimity, viewing the hale stoutness, and hearty heart, of this half-limbed giant.  Few but must have noticed him; for the accident, which brought him low, took place during the riots of 1780, and he has been a groundling so long.  He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he neighboured.  He was a grand fragment; as good as an Elgin marble.  The nature, which should have recruited his reft legs and thighs, was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, and he was half a Hercules.  I heard a tremendous voice thundering and growling, as before an earthquake, and, casting down my eyes, it was this mandrake reviling a steed that had started at his portentous appearance.  He seemed to want but his just stature to have rent the offending quadruped in shivers.  He was as the man-part of a Centaur,