Worcestershire.
WORCESTER.
Mr. John Mole.
Beneath this cold stone lies a son of the earth;
His story is short, though we date from his birth;
His mind was as gross as his body was big;
He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig.
No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state,
Did e’er for a moment encumber John’s pate.
He sat or he walked, but his walk was but creeping,
And he rose from his bed—when quite tir’d of sleeping.
Without foe, without friend, unnotic’d he died;
Not a single soul laughed, not a single soul cried.
Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov’d earth.
So the sexton has cover’d his body with turf.
Mammy and I together lived
Just two years and a half;
She went first, I followed next,
The cow before the calf.
BROMESGROVE.
In memory of Thomas Maningly.
Beneath this stone lies the remains,
Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain.
A currier with his knife did the deed,
And left me in the street to bleed;
But when archangel’s trump shall sound,
And souls to bodies join, that murderer
I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.
GREAT MALVERN.
Pain was my portion, physic was my food,
Grones my devotion—drugs done me no good.
Christ was my physician—he knowed what was best,
He took me to Himself, and put me here at rest.