Here I lays,
Killed by a Chaise.
Here lies I no wonder I’se dead,
For a broad wheeled Waggon went over my head
Here lies one for medicine would not give
A little gold, and so his life he lost;
I fancy now he’d wish to live again,
Could he but know how much his funeral cost.
On a Miser.
Iron was his chest,
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,
And his heart was more.
On a Miser.
Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried “Jam satis;”
’Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.
On an Old Covetous Usurer.
You’d have me say, here lies T. U.
But I do not believe it;
For after Death there’s something due,
And he’s gone to receive it.