ON A BLACKSMITH.
Here lieth TS
Who, whilst he lived, was hotly employed
In the service of his country;
He had abilities for matters of weight,
And, whatever came upon the anvil®
He turned to advantage.
He was dexterous in penetrating into things;
For few were so hard or so close
But he would screw into them, and spy thro' them;
He shewed great strokes of his strong parts,
As well in cutting asunder the firmest connections
Which lay in his way,
As in uniting what he found asunder
To answer his purpose.
Whatever black contrivances were forged,
He soon blew them up,
And was successful in quenching
The red hot fury of those he had in hand :
His station was an unquiet one ;
But by a judicious use of instruments,
Of which he was master,
And by making vice itself subservient to his work ;
He secured his points ;
And by hitting the right nail on the head, Arrived to the height of his desires, And lived, with spirits, in the common way : In which situation
He bent himself to be serviceable
Among whom he wrought a good understanding;
And when things went wrong or lame,
Would stoop to set them on letter footing.
He was not linked to any party;
Old and New were equally his interest;
He made a great noise in the world;
And shone in his station,
Till age spread a rust over him,
And death put out his fire,
And here are laid his dust and ashes.
On Mr. Demar, who died July the 6th, 1720:
Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demar the wealthy and the wise.
His heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcass in a chest.
The very chest, in which, they say
His other self, his money, lay.
And if those heirs continue kind
To that dear self he left behind,
I dare to swear that four in five
Will think his better self alive
Here lies the body of poor Frank Row,
Parish-clerk and grave-stone cutter ;
you know,
What Frank for others us'd to do
Is now for Frank done by another.
On Robert Pocklington, of Newgate-Market.
Our Bob was a butcher; you'll say what of that?
And sold veal, beef, and mutton, white dainty and fat.
All this, Sirs, is true; but our Robert did more,
What he could not sell, he sent home to the poor;
And, what is uncommon, he sent it while sweet,
And such as a prince might accept as a treat.
Let nobles and princes, who've plenty in store,
Go copy our Bob, and they need do no more:
He had a good heart, not a kinder was given,
To lift us from earth to a mansion in heaven;
ON DEAN SWIFT.
By R. Bettersworth, Esq.
Here lies one Swift, one Harley's master-tool
Spendthrift of wit, who died at length a fool;
Who, for his jest, ne'er spar'd or friends or foes:
He's gone-but where--the Lord of Oxford knows.
Said to be written by Soame Jenyns, Esq.
Here lies poor Johnson, reader, have a care,
Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear;
Religious, moral, gen'rous and humane
He was but self-sufficient, rude and vain:
Ill-bred, and overbearing in dispute ;
A scholar and a christian-yet a brute.
Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,
His actions, sayings, mirth and melancholy,
Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,
Will tell you how he wrote, and talk'd, and cough'd and spit.
ON DR. JOHNSON.
Cy Couper
Here Johnson lies-a sage by all allow'd,
Whom to have bred may well make England proud:
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim-grave, masculine, and strong,
Superior praise to the mere poet's song;
Who many a noble gift from Heav'n possess'd,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man, immortal by a double prize!*
By fame on earth-by glory in the skies!
ON MADAM WAGG,
Who was fond of playing Cards.
Here lies Madam Wagg,
And we hope she's at rest;
But without loo, and brag;
She'll be sadly distrest.
So, lest cards might be few,
In so distant a land,
She discreetly withdrew,
With a pack in her hand,
MR. JOHN BASKERVILLE,
So well known for the elegance and beauty of his printing, died at Birmingham in 1775, and was inurned according to his desire, in a conical building near his late widow's house, in the said town, with the following epitaph, written by himself, inscribed thereon.
Beneath this cone, in unconsecrated ground,
A friend to the liberties of mankind directed
His body to be inurned.
May the example contribute to emancipate
Thy mind
From the idle fears of Superstition,
And the wicked arts of priesthood.
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