On the twenty-second of June,
Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.
On Shadrach Johnson,
Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty-
four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.
Shadrach lies here; who made both sexes happy,
The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.
On a Cricketer.
I bowled, I struck, I caught, I stopt,
Sure life’s a game of cricket;
I block’d with care, with caution popp’d,
Yet Death has hit my wicket.
On a Puritanical Locksmith.
A zealous locksmith died of late,
And did arrive at heaven gate;
He stood without and would not knock,
Because he meant to pick the lock.
On John Cole,
Who died suddenly, while at dinner.
Here lies Johnny Cole,
Who died, on my soul,
After eating a plentiful dinner.
While chewing his crust,
He was turned into dust,
With his crimes undigested—poor sinner!
On Mr. Death, the Actor.
Death levels all, both high and low,
Without regard to stations;
Yet why complain,
If we are slain?
For here lies one, at least, to show,
He kills his own relations.