WHITCHURCH.
Richard Shortridge. 1831.
Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow,
That sends on the winds the tickings of woe,
In sound like the knell of a spirit that’s fled,
And tells us, alas! a brother is dead?
Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov’d
And lifeless the form that manfully mov’d,
The clods of the valley encompass his head,
This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.
Dorsetshire.
WIMBORNE.
John Penny.
Here honest John, who oft the turf had paced,
And stopp’d his mother’s earth, in earth is placed,
Nor all the skill of John himself could save,
From being stopp’d within an earthly grave.
A friend to sport, himself of sporting fame,
John died, as he had lived, with heart of game—
Nor did he yield until his mortal breath
Was hard run down by that grim sportsman—Death.
Reader, if cash thou art in want of any,
Dig four feet deep, and thou wilt find—a Penny.
EAST KNOWLE TURNPIKE.
Since Man to Man is so unjust,
That no Man knows what man to trust,
My Roads are good, my Toll’s just,
Pay to-day, to-morrow I’ll trust.