Chapter 6

There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:—

Beneath this stone his own dear child,Whose gone from weFor ever more unto eternity;Where we do hope that we shall go to he,But him can never more come back to we.

On a Chemist.

Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamateWith Clay,In Balneo ArenæStratum super Stratum,The Residuum, Terra damnata, and CaputMortuumOf Boyle Godfry, ChemistAnd M.D.A man, who in his earthly LaboratoryPursued various Processes to obtainAreanum VitæOr the secret to live;Also Aurum Vitæ,Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold.Alchemist like,All his Labour and Profection,As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in FuomoWhen he dissolv’d to his first Principles,He departed as poorAs the last Drops of an Alembic;For riches are not pouredOn the Adepts of this world.Though fond of News, he carefully avoidedThe Fermentation, Effervescence,And Decrepitation of this Life.Full Seventy years his exalted EssenceWas Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras,But the radical Moisture being exhausted,The Elixir Vitæ spent,And exsiccated to a Cuticle,He could not suspend longer in his VehicleBut precipitated GradatimPer Campanam.To his Original Dust.May that light, brighter than BolognianPhosphorus, Preserve him from theAthanor, Empyremna, &Of the otherWorld.Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria ofthis;Highly Rectify’d & VolatizeHis Ætheral Spirit,Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of thisGlobe, place it in a proper Recipient,Or Chrystalline Orb,Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin,Never to be Saturated,Till the General Resuscitation,Deflagration, Calcination,And Sublimation of all Things.

On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.

What! kill a partridge in the month of May!Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?

On Du Bois,Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.

Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.

On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.

As the birds were the first of the architect kind,And are still better builders than men,What wonders may spring from a Nightingale’s mind,When St. Paul’s was produced by a Wren.

On Mr. Churchill.

Says Tom to Richard, “Churchill’s dead.”Says Richard, “Tom, you lie;Old Rancour the report has spread,But Genius cannot die.”

On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,Who, several years before his death, lost one of hisnether limbs.

Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,Though his pickle was true Attic salt;One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,Though his wit was known never to halt.A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,With one limb taken off for wise ends;Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,Never failed to take off his best friends:Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,Was his practice for pastime or pelf;For which ’twere no wonder, if both should rejoiceAt the day when he took off himself.

On James Straw, an Attorney.

Hic jacet Jacobus Straw,Who forty years, Sir, followed the law,And when he died,The Devil cried,“Jemmy, gie’s your paw.”

On Robert Sleath.

Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to Bishop Hurd.

On Wednesday last, old Robert SleathPassed through the turnpike gate of death.To him would death no toll abate,Who stopped the King at Wor’ster gate.

On Ned Purdon.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freeWho long was a bookseller’s hack.He led such a damnable life in this worldI don’t think he’ll ever come back.

On Stephen Remnant.

Here’s a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death,Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath.To mortality this gives a happy release,For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.

A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and has been frequently printed. From theCambrian Register, 1795 (Vol. I. p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666. The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of Francis Kynaston.

Here lyes, by name, the world’s mother,By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother;My grandmother, mother to my mother;My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother;My grandfather’s daughter and his mother;All which may rightly be,Without the breach of consanguinity.

On Robert Pemberton.

Here liesRobin, but notRobin Hood;Here liesRobinthat never did good;Here liesRobinby heaven forsak’n;Here liesRobin—the devil may tak’n.

On a Stay Maker.

Alive, unnumber’d stays he made,(He work’d industrious night and day;)E’en dead he still pursues his trade,For herehis bones will make a stay.

Brevity of life.

Man’s life’s a vapour,And full of woes;He cuts a caper,And down he goes.

By Boileau, the Poet.

Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows,Not less for mine, than her repose!

Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife,Who led a pretty jarring life;But all is ended—do you see?He holds his tongue, and so does she.

If drugs and physic could but saveUs mortals from the dreary grave,’Tis known that I took full enoughOf the apothecaries’ stuffTo have prolonged life’s busy feastTo a full century at least;But spite of all the doctors’ skill,Of daily draught and nightly pill,Reader, as sure as you’re alive,I was sent here at twenty-five.

Poor Jerry’s Epitaph.

Here lies poor Jerry,Who always seem’d merry,But happiness needed.He tried all he couldTo be something good,But never succeeded.He married two wives:The first good, but somewhat quaint;The second very good—like a saint.In peace may they rest.And when they come to heaven,May they all be forgivenFor marrying such a pest.

On three infants.

If you’re disposed to weep for sinners dead,About these children trouble not your head,Reserve your grief for them of riper years,They as has never sinned can’t want no tears.

On a Drunkard.

The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.He’s top’d his last and reeled to bed.

On a Rum and Milk Drinker.

Rum and milk I had in store,Till my poor belly could hold no more:It caused me to be so fat,My death was owing unto that.

On Joseph Crump, a Musician.

Once ruddy and plump,But now a pale lump,Beneath this safe hump,Lies honest Joe Crump,Who wish’d to his neighbours no evil,Who, tho’ by Death’s thumpHe’s laid on his rump,Yet up he shall jumpWhen he hears the last trump,And triumph o’er Death and the Devil.

On Sir Isaac Newton.

Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night,God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.

An Attorney.

Here lieth one who often lied before,But now he lies here he lies no more.

On Peter Wilson,Who was drowned.

Peter was in the ocean drown’d,A careless, hapless creature!And when his lifeless trunk was found,It was become Salt Peter.

Here lies the body of an honest man.And when he died he owed nobody nothing.

Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeareTo diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE.Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es StonesAnd curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.

Underneath this stone doth lie,As much beauty as could die;Which, when alive, did vigour giveTo as much beauty as could live.

To the memory of Mary Clow, &c.

A vertuous wife, a loving mother,And one esteemed by all that knew her.And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse to the end.

A vertuous wife, a loving mother,And one esteemed by all that knew her.

And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse to the end.

Old Epitaph.

As I was so are ye,As I am You shall be,That I had that I gave,That I gave that I have,Thus I end all my cost,That I left that I lost.

Epitaph on a Bell Ringer.

Stephen & time now are even,Stephen beat time, now time’s beat Stephen.

Here liesElizabeth Wise.She died of Thunder sent from HeavenIn 1777.

On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox.

At once depriv’d of life, lies here,A family to virtue dear.Though far remov’d from regal state,Their virtues made them truly great.Lest one should feel the other’s fall,Death has, in kindness, seiz’d them all.

George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a few hours before his decease. An application was made by Messrs. Tippens, addressed to the judge “if living, or his executors,” for the payment of a bill. The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours prior to his death, and was as follows:—

“Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear’d by you,Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true,That I am dead; and, more afflicting still,My legal assets cannot pay your bill.To think of this, I am almost broken hearted,Insolvent I, this earthly life departed;Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing,For executors and self,George Hardinge.”

George Hardinge.”

The manner of her death was thus,She was druv over by a Bus.

Here lies Martha wife of Hugh,Born at StAnsell’s, buried at Kew,Children in wedlock they had five,Three are dead & two are alive,Those who are living had much ratherDie with the Mother than live with the Father.

“The BodyofBenjamin Franklin, Printer,(like the cover of an old book,its contents torn out,and stripped of its lettering and gilding),lies here, food for worms;yet the work itself shall not be lost;for it will, as he believed, appear once morein a new and more beautiful edition,corrected and amendedbyThe Author!”

Singular Epitaph.

Careless and thoughtless all my life,Stranger to every source of strife,And deeming each grave sage a fool,The law of nature was my rule.By which I learnt to duly measureMy portion of desire and pleasure.’Tis strange that here I lie you see,For death must have indulged a whim,At any time t’ have thought of me,Who never once did think of him.

On Earle the boxer.

Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11thof April 1788 gave in.

She lived genteely on a small income.

Epitaph on a Gamester.

Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,Who left the room without a shilling,Losing each stake, till he had thrownHis last, and lost the game to Death;If Paradise his soul has won,’Twas a rare stroke of luck i’faith!

On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.

Here lies who never lied before,And one who never will lie More,To which there need be no more said,Than More the pity she is dead,For when alive she charmed us MoreThan all the Mores just gone before.

On a Wife (by her Husband.)

Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,In death my comfort, and my plague through life.Oh! liberty—but soft, I must not boast;She’ll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!

“Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed, appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:”—

A good mother I have been,Many troubles I have seen,All my life I’ve done my best,And so I hope my soul’s at rest.

On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of Peach.

by mr. bisset.

Deathlong had wish’d within his reach,So sweet, so delicate aPeach:He struck the Tree—the trunk lay mute;ButAngelsbore away theFruit!

Here lies my poor wife,Without bed or blanket,But dead as a door nail,God be thanked.

Epitaph on a violent Scold.

My spouse and I full many a yearLiv’d man and wife together,I could no longer keep her here,She’s gone—the Lord knows whither.Of tongue she was exceeding free,I purpose not to flatter,Of all the wives I e’er did see,None sure like her could chatter.Her body is disposed of well,A comely grave doth hide her,I’m sure her soul is not in hell,For old Nick could ne’er abide her.Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft,For in the last great thunder,Methought I heard her well known voiceRending the skies asunder.

My spouse and I full many a yearLiv’d man and wife together,I could no longer keep her here,She’s gone—the Lord knows whither.

Of tongue she was exceeding free,I purpose not to flatter,Of all the wives I e’er did see,None sure like her could chatter.

Her body is disposed of well,A comely grave doth hide her,I’m sure her soul is not in hell,For old Nick could ne’er abide her.

Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft,For in the last great thunder,Methought I heard her well known voiceRending the skies asunder.

On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.

Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,Or, in one word, here lies ascolding wife;Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,He durst not for his ears have touched theslut.

Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,If I said I regretted her—I should lie too.

On a Scold.

Here lies, thank God, a woman whoQuarrell’d and stormed her whole life through,Tread gently o’er her mould’ring form,Or else you’ll raise another storm.

On a Wife (by her Husband).

Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,She’s happy, and I’m contented.

One was our thought, One life we fought,One rest we both intended,Our bodies have to sleepe one grave,Our soules to God ascended.

Conjugal Epitaph.

Here rest my spouse, no pair through life,So equal liv’d as we did;Alike we shared perpetual strife,Nor knew I rest till she did.

An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.Another version.(From an old Book of Job.)

We lived one and twenty yeare,Like man and wife together;I could no longer have her heere,She’s gone, I know not whither.If I could guesse, I doe professe,(I speak it not to flatter)Of all the women in the worlde,I never would come at her.Her body is bestowed well,A handsome grave doth hide her,And sure her soule is not in hell,The fiend could ne’er abide her.I think she mounted up on hie,For in the last great thunder,Mee thought I heard her voice on hie,Rending the clouds in sunder.

Within this place a vertvous virgin lies,Much like those virgins that were counted wise,Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt,Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt,And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay,Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day,When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come,To take her with him to the wedding roome.

Amy Mitchell,1724 aged 19.

Here lies a virgin cropt in youth,A Xtian both in name and truth,Forbear to mourn, she is not dead,But gone to marry Christ her head.

On a Woman who had three Husbands.

Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,Who pleased three men, and never vexed one,That she can’t say beneath the next stone.

Marianne S--.

Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandæInane hoc, tamen ultimum,Amoris consecrat testimonium,Maritus, heu! superstes.

The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral inscriptions.

Short was her life,Longer will be her rest;Christ call’d her home,Because he thought it best.For she was born to die,To lay her body down,And young she did fly,Into the world unknown.5 years & 9 months.

Short was her life,Longer will be her rest;Christ call’d her home,Because he thought it best.

For she was born to die,To lay her body down,And young she did fly,Into the world unknown.

5 years & 9 months.

Here lies my wife in earthly mould,Who when she lived did naught but scold.Peace! wake her not for now she’s still,Shehad, but nowIhave my will.

Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her tombstone after her decease:—

I now have fallen asleep—my troubles gone,For while on earth, I had full many a one,When I get up again—as Parson says,I hope that I shall see some better days.If Husband he should make a second suitHis second wife will find that he’s abrute.He often made my poor sad heart to sigh,And often made me weep fromone poor eye,The other he knocked out by a violent blow,As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know.I hope he will not serve his next rib so,But if he should, will put the two together,And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.

On Jemmy Jewell.

’Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh,When I’m to write an epitaph.Here lies the bones of a rakishTimmyWho was aJewell& aJemmy.He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings,And twice ten thousand pretty things;Now he supplies OldNickwith fuel,And there’s an end ofJemmy Jewell.

’Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh,When I’m to write an epitaph.Here lies the bones of a rakishTimmyWho was aJewell& aJemmy.

He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings,And twice ten thousand pretty things;Now he supplies OldNickwith fuel,And there’s an end ofJemmy Jewell.

On Thomas Knowles & his Wife.

Thomas Knolles lies under this stone,And his wife Isabell: flesh and boneThey were together nineteen year,And ten children they had in fear.His fader & he to this churchMany good deed they did worch.Example by him may ye see,That this world is but vanity;For whether he be small or great,All shall turn to worms’ meat;This said Thomas was lay’d on beere,The eighth day the month Fevree,The date of Jesu Christ truly,Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty.We may not pray; heartily pray he,For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave.The swarer of our pains lissed to be,Grant us thy holy trinity. Amen.

On one stone, exhibiting a copy of thatvery rareinscription 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 submitUnto this bed of clay.

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 moreSet 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 dieA 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 crustOf Eleanor Batchelour’s shoven;Well versed in the artsOf pyes, custards, and tarts,And the lucrative skill of the oven.When she’d lived long enoughShe 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 CaptnKing,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 soundTill Bugler Angels blow it,Nor briskly march along the ground,His body lies below it.Let’s hope when at the great paradeWe all meet in a cluster,With many another martial bladeHe’ll readily pass muster.Seraphic sabre in his fist,On heavenly drill reflective,May he be placed upon the list,Eternally effective.

Here lies the gallant CaptnKing,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 soundTill Bugler Angels blow it,Nor briskly march along the ground,His body lies below it.

Let’s hope when at the great paradeWe all meet in a cluster,With many another martial bladeHe’ll readily pass 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 SkyRocket 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

On a Miser.

Here lies one for medicine would not giveA little gold, and so his life he lost;I fancy now he’d wish to live again,Could he but know how much his funeral cost.

On a Miser.

Iron was his chest,Iron was his door,His hand was iron,And his heart was more.

On a Miser.

Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried “Jam satis;”’Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.

On an Old Covetous Usurer.

You’d have me say, here lies T. U.But I do not believe it;For after Death there’s something due,And he’s gone to receive it.

On an Usurer.

Here lies ten in the hundredIn the ground fast ram’d,’Tis an hundred to ten,But his soul is damned.

Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue Officers.

Here I liesKilled by the XII.

On a Miser.

Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied plenty to himself, and assistance to his friends, and relief to the poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

On John D’Amory, the Usurer.

Beneath this verdant hillock liesDemar the wealthy and wise.His Heirs, that he might safely rest,Have put his carcase in a Chest.The very Chest, in which, they sayHis other Self, his Money, lay.And if his Heirs continue kindTo that dear Self he left behind,I dare believe that Four in FiveWill think his better self alive.

On William Clay.

A long affliction did my life attend,But time with patience brought it to an end,And now my body rests with Mother clay,Until the joyful resurrection day.

Written on Montmaur,A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment.

In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur ofhappy memory,awaiting his judgement.

On an Invalid.Written by Himself.

Here lies a head that often ached;Here lie two hands that always shak’d;Here lies a brain of odd conceit;Here lies a heart that often beat;Here lie two eyes that dimly wept,And in the night but seldom slept;Here lies a tongue that whining talk’d;—Here lie two feet that feebly walked;Here lie the midriff and the breast,With loads of indigestion prest;Here lives the liver full of bile,That ne’er secreted proper chyle;Here lie the bowels, human tripes,Tortured with wind and twisting gripes;Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,The source of life’s sad tragic scene,That left side weight that clogs the blood,And stagnates Nature’s circling flood;Here lies the back, oft racked with pains,Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,With pimples and irruptions red;Here lies the man from top to toe,That fabric fram’d for pain and woe.

On Sir John Vanbrugh.

Lie heavy on him, earth! for heLaid many heavy loads on thee.

The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:—

“Ten in the hundredlies here ingraved:’Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved:If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb?Oh! oh!quoth the devil,’tis my John-a-Combe.”

On Dr. Fuller.

Here liesFuller’searth.

On a Card-maker.

His card is cut; long days he shuffled throughThe game of Life; he dealt as others do.Though he by honours tells not its amount,When the last trump is played his tricks will count.

On a Man and his Wife.

Stay, bachelor, if you have wit,A wonder to behold:Husband and wife, in one dark pit,Lie still and never scold.Tread softly tho’ for fear she wakes;—Hark, she begins already:You’ve hurt my head;—my shoulder akes;These sots can ne’er move steady.Ah friend, with happy freedom blest!See how my hopes miscarry’d:Not death can give me rest,Unless you die unmarry’d.

Stay, bachelor, if you have wit,A wonder to behold:Husband and wife, in one dark pit,Lie still and never scold.

Tread softly tho’ for fear she wakes;—Hark, she begins already:You’ve hurt my head;—my shoulder akes;These sots can ne’er move steady.

Ah friend, with happy freedom blest!See how my hopes miscarry’d:Not death can give me rest,Unless you die unmarry’d.

Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen,The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men.“N.B.—The name is Woodcock, but it would’nt come in rhyme!”

Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen,The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men.

“N.B.—The name is Woodcock, but it would’nt come in rhyme!”

On Marshal Sare.

N.B.—The figures are to be pronounced in French as un, deux, trois, etc.

Ses vertus le feront admiré de chac

Il avait des Rivaux, mais il triompha

Les Batailles qu’il gagna sont au nombre de

Pour Louis son grand cœur se serait mis en

En amour, c’était peu pour lui d’aller à

Nous l’aurions s’il n’eut fait que le berger Tir’

Pour avoir trop souvent passé douze “Hie-ja”

Il a cessé de vivre en Decembre

Strasbourg contient son corps dans un Tombeau tout

Pour tant de “Te Deum” pas un “De profun”

---

He died at the age of

a. Tircis, the name of a celebrated Arcadian shepherd.

b. A great personage of the day remarked that it was a pity after the Marshal had by his victories been the cause of so many “Te Deums,” that it would not be allowed (the Marshal dying in the Lutheran faith) to chant one “de profundis,” over his remains.

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