_On Ann Jennings, at Wolstanton._
Some have children, some have none;
Here lies the mother of twenty-one.
_On Du Bois, born in a baggage-wagon, and killed in a duel._
Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte and tierce was his life, and a carte was his death.
_On a Publican._
A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.
_On John Underwood._
Oh cruel Death, that dost no good,
With thy destructive maggots;
Now thou hast cropt our Underwood,
What shall we do for fagots?
_In Dorchester Churchyard._
Frank from his Betty snatch'd by Fate,
Shows how uncertain is our state;
He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead--
Flung from a horse that kick'd his head.
But tho' he's gone, from tears refrain,
At judgment he'll get up again.
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