On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that VERY RARE inscription beginning with “Afflictions sore,” the second line affords the following choice specimen of orthography:—“Physicians are in vain.”
Think nothing strange, Chance happens unto all; My lot’s to-day, To-morrow yours may fall. Great afflictions I have had, Which wore my strength away; Then I was willing to submit Unto this bed of clay.
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.
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.
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 cluster, With many another martial blade He’ll readily pass muster.
Seraphic sabre in his fist, On heavenly drill reflective, May he be placed upon the list, Eternally effective.
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.