Little better is the style of most wills which have appeared in verse. Of these the rhyming will of Will Jackett (1789), who died in North Place, Islington, is well known:—
“I leave and bequeath When I’m laid underneath, To my two loving sisters most dear, The whole of my store, Were it twice as much more, Which God’s goodness has granted me here.
And that none may prevent This my will and intent, Or occasion the least of law racket; With a solemn appeal I confirm, sign, and seal, This the true Act and Deed of Will Jackett.”
Such wills have naturally been seized upon by collectors of verse and oddities. But for the most part they are scarcely worth transcription in full, so that space and time may be saved by quoting a few fragments only. A will, “found in the house of an old Batchelor lately deceased” according to “The Muses’ Mirror” (1783), begins thus:—
“With a mind quite at ease, in the evening of life, Unencumbered with children, relations, or wife; Not in friendship with one single creature alive, I make my last will, in the year sixty-five; How I leave my affairs, though I care not a straw, Lest a grocer should start up my true heir-at-law; Or of such in default, which would prove a worse thing, My land unbequeathed should revert to the king, I give and bequeath, be it first understood, I’m a friend, and a firm friend to the general good, And odd as I seem, was remarked from my youth, A stickler at all times for honour and truth....”
Four years later Nathaniel Lloyd, Esquire, of Twickenham, followed the “old Batchelor’s” example.
“What I am going to bequeath, When this frail part submits to death; But still I hope the spark divine With its congenial stars will shine: My good executors fulfil, I pray ye, fairly, my last will, With first and second codicil!... Unto my nephew, Robert Longdon, Of whom none says he e’er has wrong done; Tho’ civil law he loves to hash, I give two hundred pounds in cash.... To Sally Crouch and Mary Lee, If they with Lady Poulet be, Because they round the year did dwell In Twick’nham House, and served full well, When Lord and Lady both did stray Over the hills and far away; The first ten pounds, the other twenty, And, girls, I hope that will content ye. In seventeen hundred and sixty-nine, This with my hand I write and sign; The sixteenth day of fair October, In merry mood, but sound and sober; Past my threescore and fifteenth year, With spirits gay and conscience clear; Joyous and frolicksome, tho’ old, And, like this day, serene but cold; To foes well-wishing, and to friends most kind, In perfect charity with all mankind.”
More modern, but in its touches of human nature not of this age only, is the will of one Sarah Smith.
“I, Sarah Smith, a spinster lone, With little here to call my own, Few friends to weep at my decease, Or pray my soul may rest in peace, Do make my last and only will, (Unless I add a codicil,) My brother Sam to see it done For he’s the right and proper one. I give the kettle that I use At tea-time, and the little cruse That holds hot posset for a guest To Martha, for she’s homeliest; Perhaps she’d like the picture too In needlework of Auntie Loo (So like her,) and of Uncle Jim, She always was so fond of him. Then there’s the parlour chair and table, I give them both to you, dear Mabel, With love, and when you sit thereat Remember there your Sarah sat. My poor old spectacles will be More use to you, alas, than me, So take them, Polly, and they may Perhaps sometimes at close of day Grow dim when memories arise Of how they suited Sally’s eyes. Pussy will not be with you long, But while she lives do her no wrong, A mug of milk beside the fire Will be the most that she’ll desire. There’s little else I have to mention, For, when I’ve spent my old-age pension, Not many crowns disturb my sleep, But what there is is Sam’s to keep: He’s been a brother kind and good In all my days of solitude. And so farewell: no word of ill Shall stain my last and only will; But, friends, be just and gentle with The memory of Sarah Smith.”
Genuine wills in rhyme are naturally rare, but literature is full of imaginary or fantastic testaments, as well in prose as in verse. To such a one Sir Walter Scott refers in a letter to Lady Anne Hamilton: “I always remind myself of the bequest which once upon a time the wren made to the family of Hamilton. This magnanimous, patriotic bird, after disposing of his personal property to useful and public services, such as one of his legs to prop the bridge of Forth and the other to prop the bridge of Tay, at length instructs his executors thus:—