This grave holds Caspar Schink, who came to dine,
And taste the noblest vintage of the Rhine;
Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank,
Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.
One only comfort have we in the case,—
The trump will raise him in the proper place.
Here lies Peg, that drunken sot,
Who dearly loved her jug and pot;
There she lies, as sure as can be,
She killed herself by drinking brandy.
Calcutta.
Bene:
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The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.
His last steak done; his fire rak’d out and dead,
Dished for the worms himself, lies honest Ned:
We, then, whose breasts bore all his fleshly toils,
Took all his bastings, and shared all his broils;
Now, in our turn, a mouthful carve and trim,
And dress at Phœbus’ fire, one scrap for him:—
His heart which well might grace the noblest grave,
Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave;
And ne’er did earth’s wide maw a morsel gain
Of kindlier juices or more tender grain;
His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt,
Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt;
Still to whatever end his chops he mov’d,
’Twas all well seasoned, relished, and approv’d:
This room his heaven!—When threatening Fate drew nigh
The closing shade that dimm’d his ling’ring eye,
His last fond hopes, betray’d by many a tear,
Were—That his life’s last spark might glimmer here;
And the last words that choak’d his parting sigh—
“Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!”
Ann Short.
Ann Short, O Lord, of praising thee,
Nothing I can do is right;
Needy and naked, poor I be,
Short, Lord, I am of sight:
How short I am of love and grace!
Of everything I’m short,
Renew me, then I’ll follow peace
Through good and bad report.
Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our Church organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling;
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Tho’ he gave our old organist many a blast.
No puffer was he,
Tho’ a capital blower;
He could fill double G,
And now lies a note lower.
In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably placed there as a memento to Italian Toby Philpots:—
“Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of morning in a sober state. Even my bones are now thirsty. Stranger, sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come. Farewell Drinkers!”