In memory of
JOHN BUCKETT,
Many years landlord of the King's
Head Inn, in this Borough,
Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802.
Aged 67 years.
And is, alas! poor Buckett gone?
Farewell, convivial, honest John.
Oft at the well, by fatal stroke,
Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.
In this same motley shifting scene,
How various have thy fortunes been!
Now lifted high--now sinking low.
To-day thy brim would overflow,
Thy bounty then would all supply,
To fill and drink, and leave thee dry;
To-morrow sunk as in a well,
Content, unseen, with truth to dwell:
But high or low, or wet or dry,
No rotten stave could malice spy.
Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise,
And claim thy station in the skies;
'Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine,
Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.
From the "Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment," issued in 1656, we extract
the following lines on John Taylor, "the Water Poet," who was a native of
Gloucester, and died in Phoenix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his
age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent
Garden Churchyard:--
Here lies John Taylor, without rime or reason,
For death struck his muse in so cold a season,
That Jack lost the use of his scullers to row:
The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.
Alas, poor Jack Taylor! this 'tis to drink ale
With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale,
It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack
With Draiton and Johnson to quaff off thy sack,
They'd infus'd thee a genius should ne'er expire,
And have thaw'd thy muse with elemental fire.
Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit,
Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit,
The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation
Sirnamed thee the _water-poet_ of the nation.
Who can write more of thee let him do't for me.
A ---- take all rimers, Jack Taylor, but thee.
Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse,
Over the stone of so merry a muse.
Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper,
Mauchline:--
Here lies Johnny Pigeon:
What was his religion?
Whae'er desires to ken,
To some other warl'
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny had none!
Strong ale was ablution--
Small beer persecution,
A dram was _memento mori_;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving of his soul,
And port was celestial glory.