Fugitive poetry, 1600-1878, compiled and ed. by J.C. Hutchieson

576

EPITAPHS.

Till Christ my Redeemer,
Who knows what is best;
To ease me of my pain,
Has taken me to my rest.

IN FETTERESSO CHURCHYARD.

OUR life is short, and 'tis
Full of sorrow,

We're here to-day and straight
Are gone to-morrow.

IN COWIE CHURCHYARD.

HERE lies the man, for aught we know,
That lived and died without a foe,

Now mouldering here, beneath that clod—
"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

IN COWIE CHURCHYARD.

THIS little spot is all our lot,

And all that kings acquire;

Our homes above, a gift of love—
Oh, reader! there aspire.

ON AN INFANT.

HERE lies a spotless child-profane our smile,
For him—but for yourself let sorrow flow,
For had he lived he might have been as vile,
He might have been as profligate as you.

IN SELBY CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE.
HERE lies the body of poor Frank Rowe,
Parish clerk and gravestone cutter;
And this is writ to let you know,
What Frank for others used to do

Is now for Frank done by another.

EPITAPHS.

ON JOHN SULLEN.

HERE lies John Sullen, and it is God's will,
He that was Sullen should be Sullen still;
He still is Sullen, if the truth ye seek,
Knock until doomsday, Sullen will not speak.

IN RIPON CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE.

READER, who gazing on this lettered stone,
My fate displaying, thoughtless of thine own,
On this important truth thou mayst rely,
To thee both death and judgment may be nigh.
Oh! let this solemn thought, whoe'er thou art,
Find place within, and regulate thy heart.

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HATFIELD, HERTS.

THE world's a city full of crooked streets;
And death the market-place where all men meet.
If death were merchandise, that men could buy,
The rich would always live, the poor must die.

577

IN THE CHURCHYARD OF LANGTOWN, CUMBERLAND.

LIFE's like an inn where travellers stay:
Some only breakfast and away,
Others to dinner stay, and are full fed-
The oldest only sup and go to bed;
Long is his bill who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay

P P

578

EPITAPHS.

ON A FIDDLER.

BEHOLD how in time all things come even:
Stephen beat time, now Time's beat Stephen.