Beneath the droppings of this spout,
Here lies the body once so stout,
Of Francis Thompson.
A soul this carcase once possess'd,
Which of its virtues was caress'd,
By all who knew the owner best.
The Rufford records can declare,
His actions, who for seventy year,
Both drew and drank its potent beer;
Fame mentions not in all that time,
In this great Butler the least crime,
To stain his reputation.
To envy's self we now appeal,
If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.
Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear,
Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6th, 1739.
We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal
churchyard; it is on JOSEPH THACKEREY, who died on the 26th of November,
1791:--
In the year of our Lord 1740
I came to the Crown;
In 1791 they laid me down.
The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the
memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving
of the spiritual with the temporal:--
Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion,
Doth lie the landlord of the "Lion,"
His son keeps on the business still,
Resign'd unto the Heavenly will.
In 1789 passed away the landlady of the "Pig and Whistle," Greenwich, and
the following lines were inscribed to her memory:--
Assign'd by Providence to rule a tap,
My days pass'd gibly, till an awkward rap,
Some way, like bankruptcy, impell'd me down.
But up I got again and shook my gown
In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever,
Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather;
Composed with creditors, at five in pound,
And frolick'd on till laid beneath this ground.
The debt of Nature must, you know, be paid,
No trust from her--God grant _extent in aid_.