A _wicked_ one lies buried here,
Who died in a _decline_;
He never rose in rank, I fear,
Though he was born to _shine_.
He once was _fat_, but now, indeed,
He's thin as any griever;
He died,--the Doctors all agreed,
Of a most _burning_ fever.
One thing of him is said with truth,
With which I'm much amused;
It is--That when he stood, forsooth,
A _stick_ he always used.
Now _winding-sheets_ he sometimes made,
But this was not enough,
For finding it a poorish trade,
He also dealt in _snuff_.
If e'er you said "_Go out_, I pray,"
He much ill nature show'd;
On such occasions he would say,
"Vy, if I do, _I'm blow'd_."
In this his friends do all agree,
Although you'll think I'm joking,
When _going out_ 'tis said that he
Was very fond of _smoking_.
Since all religion he despised,
Let these few words suffice,
Before he ever was baptized
They _dipp'd_ him once or twice.
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