And art thou dead, poor little Spot?
Is this, alas! thy doleful lot,
To lie beneath the ground and rot?
Poor little Spot!

Alas! and are thy days all gone,
Are all thy toils and pleasures done,
And all thy earthly races run?
Poor little Spot!

Ah, yes, alas, 't is so! 't is so!
Thy dismal fate too well I know,
And all the story of thy woe,
Poor little Spot!

Nor more thou 'lt skip and prance about,
And sidelong slant thy long, slim snout,
And ask for bones with canine pout,
Poor little Spot!

Thou 'lt bark and bite and drum the floor,
And scratch the fleas, and snarl no more,
For all thy flea-bites now are o'er,
Poor little Spot!

Ah, once thou wast, but now art not,
And much, I fear, wilt be forgot,
For thou art rotted to a dot,
Poor little Spot!

But, Spot! thou liest not alone;
To join thee, kings have left a throne;
And from thy fate I learn my own,
Poor little Spot!