My watch perform’d, lo here at rest I lay,
Not to turn out till resurrection day.
Laconic Epitaph on a Sailor.
I caught a feaver—weather plaguey hot,
Was boarded by a Leech—and now am gone to pot.
On an honest Sailor.
Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast;
Poor Tom’s mizen topsail is laid to the mast;
He’ll never turn out, or more heave the lead;
He’s now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead;
He ever was brisk, &, though now gone to wreck,
When he hears the last whistle he’ll jump upon deck.
Epitaph on a Sailor.
Tom Taugh lies below, as gallant arous.
On a Man who was killed by a blow from a Sky Rocket.
Here I lie,
Killed by a Sky
Rocket in my eye.
On a Post Boy, who was killed by the overturning of a Chaise.