If drugs and physic could but save
Us mortals from the dreary grave,
’Tis known that I took full enough
Of the apothecaries’ stuff
To have prolonged life’s busy feast
To a full century at least;
But spite of all the doctors’ skill,
Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you’re alive,
I was sent here at twenty-five.
Poor Jerry’s Epitaph.
Here lies poor Jerry,
Who always seem’d merry,
But happiness needed.
He tried all he could
To be something good,
But never succeeded.
He married two wives:
The first good, but somewhat quaint;
The second very good—like a saint.
In peace may they rest.
And when they come to heaven,
May they all be forgiven
For marrying such a pest.
On three infants.
If you’re disposed to weep for sinners dead,
About these children trouble not your head,
Reserve your grief for them of riper years,
They as has never sinned can’t want no tears.
On a Drunkard.
The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.
He’s top’d his last and reeled to bed.
Rum and milk I had in store,
Till my poor belly could hold no more:
It caused me to be so fat,
My death was owing unto that.
On Joseph Crump, a Musician.