Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,
Who left the room without a shilling,
Losing each stake, till he had thrown
His last, and lost the game to Death;
If Paradise his soul has won,
’Twas a rare stroke of luck i’faith!
On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.
Here lies who never lied before,
And one who never will lie More,
To which there need be no more said,
Than More the pity she is dead,
For when alive she charmed us More
Than all the Mores just gone before.
On a Wife (by her Husband.)
Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,
In death my comfort, and my plague through life.
Oh! liberty—but soft, I must not boast;
She’ll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!
“Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed, appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:”—
A good mother I have been,
Many troubles I have seen,
All my life I’ve done my best,
And so I hope my soul’s at rest.
On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of Peach.
by mr. bisset.
Death long had wish’d within his reach,
So sweet, so delicate a Peach:
He struck the Tree—the trunk lay mute;
But Angels bore away the Fruit!