ON MR. JOHN BERRY.
How! how ! who's buried here ?
JOHN BERRY. Is't the younger ?
No, the elder-BERRY.
An elder-BERRY buried! surely must
Rather rise up, and live, than turn to dust:
So may our BERRY, whom stern death has slain,
Be only buried to rise up again.
Hanged for Sheep-stealing.
HERE lies the body of THOMAS KEMP,
Who liv'd by wool, but dy'd by hemp;
There's nothing would suffice this glutton,
But, with the fleece, to steal the mutton;
Had he but work'd, and liv'd uprighter,
He'd ne'er been hang'd for a sheep-biter.
KEEPER OF KEW GATE.
By John O'Combe, Parish Clerk.
OLD WILL, who kept the gate at Kew,
And kindly let all people through,
Was one day treated most uncivil,
Either by death, or by the devil;
For one, without or noise or strife,
Shut upon WILL the gate of life.
ON SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.
Written by himself.
Now measur'd out my days, 'tis here I rest,
That is my body, but my soul, his guest,
Is here ascended; whither neither time,
Nor faith, nor hope, but only love can climb :
Where being now enlighten'd, she does know
The truth of all things which are talk'd below.
Only this dust shall here in pawn remain,
That when the world dissolves she'll come again.
STAY, traveller!--for all you want is near—
Wisdom and power I ask-they both lie here;
Nay, but I look for more, and raise my aim
To wit, taste, learning, elegance, and fame:
Here ends your journey then, for here the store
Of RICHLIEU lies-alas! repeat no more-
Shame on my pride! what hope is left for me,
When here death treads on all that man can be.
WHETHER sailor or not, for a moment avast!
Poor JACK'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 a-head;
He always was brisk, and tho' now gone to wreck,
When he hears the last whistle, he'll jump upon deck.
ON MR. JOHN PETTYGREW,
Late Minister at Givan, near Glasgow. HERE lies a reverend Givan priest, Who sore against his will deceast, His soul's to Abraham's bosom fled, As by his reverend elders said; Others, who knew his youthful joyes, Say Sarah's rather was his choice; But be as 'twill, his scabbard's humbled, Death tripp'd up his heels, and down he tumbled.
ON JOAN CARTHEW.
HERE lies the body of Joan Carthew,
Born at St. Columb, buried at St. Cue:
Children she had five;
Three are dead, and two alive;
Those that are dead chusing rather
To die with the mother, than live with the father.
ST. MARY'S, NOTTINGHAM.
ON MRS. BUFF.
A Fortune Teller.
HERE lies Mrs. Buff,
Who had money enough:
She laid it up in a store;
And when she died
She shut her eyes,
And never spoke no more.
UNDER this stone
Lies a reverend drone,
To Tyburn well known;
Who preach'd against sin,
With a terrible grin ;
In which some may think he acted but oddly,
Since he liv'd by the wicked, and not by the godly.
In time of great need,
In case he were feed,
He'd teach one to read,
Old pot-hooks and scrawls
As ancient as Paul's:
But if no money came,
You might hang for old Sam,
And founder'd in psalter,
Be ty'd to a halter.
This priest was well hung,
I mean with a tongue,
And bold sons of vice,
Would disarm in a trice,
And draw tears from a flint,
Or the devil is in't.
If a sinner came him nigh,
With soul black as chimney,
And had but the sense
To give him the pence,
With a little church. paint
He'd make him a saint.
He understood physick,
And cur'd cough and phthisick;
And, in short, all the ills
That we find in the bills,
With a sovereign balm,
The world calls a psalm:
Thus his Newgate birds, once in the space of a moon, Tho' they liv'd to no purpose, they dy'd to some tune. In death was his hope, For he liv'd by a rope; Yet this, by the way, In his praise we may say, That, like a true friend, He his flock did attend, Even to the world's end. And car'd not to start, From sledge or from cart, Till he first saw them wear Knots under their ear, And merrily swing In a well-twisted string! But if any dy'd hard, And left no reward, As I told you before, He'd enhance their old score,
And kill them again
With his murdering pen;
Thus he kept sin in awe,
And supported the law.
But oh! cruel fate!
So unkind, tho' I say't,
Last week, to our grief,
Grim death, that old thief,
Alas and alack!
Had the boldness to pack
This old priest on his back,
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