Gleanings in Graveyards Part 42

On Burbridge, the Tragedian.

Exit Burbridge.

On the late Mr. Suett.

Here lies to mix with kindred earth, A child of wit, of Glee and Mirth; Hush'd are those powers which gave delight; And made us laugh in reason's spite: Thy "gibes and jests shall now no more Set all the rabble in a roar."

Sons of Mirth, and Humour come, And drop a tear on Suett's Tomb; Nor ye alone, but all who view it, Weep and Exclaim, Alas Poor Suett.

On the Tomb of a Murdered Man.

O holy Jove! my murderers, may they die A death like mine-my buriers live in joy!

On a Magistrate who had formerly been a Barber.

Here lies Justice;-be this his truest praise: He wore the wig which once he made, And learnt to shave both ways.

To the Memory of Nell Batchelour, The Oxford Pye-woman.

Here into the dust, The mouldering crust Of Eleanor Batchelour's shoven; Well versed in the arts Of pyes, custards, and tarts, And the lucrative skill of the oven.

When she'd lived long enough She made her last puff- A puff by her husband much praised; Now here she does lie, And makes a dirt-pye, In hopes that her crust may be raised.

On a Volunteer.

Here lies the gallant Captn King, He's finished Life's review; No more he'll stand on either wing, For now he flies on two.

He was a gallant Volunteer, But now his Rifle's rusty; No more at drill will he appear, His uniform is dusty.

No more he'll hear the Bugle's sound Till Bugler Angels blow it, Nor briskly march along the ground, His body lies below it.

Let's hope when at the great parade We all meet in a cl.u.s.ter, With many another martial blade He'll readily pa.s.s muster.

Seraphic sabre in his fist, On heavenly drill reflective, May he be placed upon the list, Eternally effective.

On a Sailor.

Written by his messmate.

Here is honest Jack-to the lobsters a prey, Who lived like a sailor free hearty and gay, His riggings well fitted, his sides close and tight, His bread room well furnished, his mainmast upright; When Death, like a pirate built solely for plunder, Thus hail'd Jack in a voice loud as thunder, "Drop your peak my old boy, and your topsails throw back!

For already too long you've remain'd on that tack."

Jack heard the dread call, and without more ado, His sails flatten'd in and his bark she broach'd to.

Laconic Epitaph.

Snug.

On a Seaman.

My watch perform'd, lo here at rest I lay, Not to turn out till resurrection day.

Laconic Epitaph on a Sailor.

I caught a feaver-weather plaguey hot, Was boarded by a Leech-and now am gone to pot.

On an honest Sailor.

Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast; Poor Tom's mizen topsail is laid to the mast; He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead; He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead; He ever was brisk, &, though now gone to wreck, When he hears the last whistle he'll jump upon deck.

Epitaph on a Sailor.

Tom Taugh lies below, as gallant arous.

On a Man who was killed by a blow from a Sky Rocket.

Here I lie, Killed by a Sky Rocket in my eye.

On a Post Boy, who was killed by the overturning of a Chaise.

Here I lays, Killed by a Chaise.

Here lies I no wonder I'se dead, For a broad wheeled Waggon went over my head