Worcestershire.
WORCESTER.
Mr. John Mole.
Beneath this cold stone lies a son of the earth;
His story is short, though we date from his birth;
His mind was as gross as his body was big;
He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig.
No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state,
Did e’er for a moment encumber John’s pate.
He sat or he walked, but his walk was but creeping,
And he rose from his bed—when quite tir’d of sleeping.
Without foe, without friend, unnotic’d he died;
Not a single soul laughed, not a single soul cried.
Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov’d earth.
So the sexton has cover’d his body with turf.
Mammy and I together lived
Just two years and a half;
She went first, I followed next,
The cow before the calf.
BROMESGROVE.
In memory of Thomas Maningly.
Beneath this stone lies the remains,
Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain.
A currier with his knife did the deed,
And left me in the street to bleed;
But when archangel’s trump shall sound,
And souls to bodies join, that murderer
I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.
GREAT MALVERN.
Pain was my portion, physic was my food,
Grones my devotion—drugs done me no good.
Christ was my physician—he knowed what was best,
He took me to Himself, and put me here at rest.
BELBROUGTON
Richard Philpots.
To tell a merry or a wonderous tale
Over a chearful glass of nappy Ale,
In harmless mirth was his supreme delight,
To please his Guests or Friends by day or night;
But no fine tale, how well soever told,
Could make the tyrant Death his stroak withold;
That fatal Stroak has Laid him here in Dust,
To rise again once more with Joy we trust.
On the upper portion of this Christian monument are carved, in full relief, a punch-bowl, a flagon, and a bottle, emblems of the deceased’s faith, and of those pots which Mr. Philpots delighted to fill.
“Near to this is a fine tombstone to the memory of Paradise Buckler (who died in 1815), the daughter of a gipsy king. The pomp that attended her funeral is well remembered by many of the inhabitants. I have heard one of my relatives say that the gipsies borrowed from her a dozen of the finest damask napkins (for the coffin handles)—none but those of the very best quality being accepted for the purpose—and that they were duly returned, beautifully ‘got up’ and scented. The king and his family were encamped in a lane near to my relative’s house, and his daughter (a young girl of fifteen) died in the camp.
“C. Bede.”