Reader, have patience, for a Moment Stay,
Nor grudge the Tribute of a friendly tear,
For John, who once made all our Village gay,
Has taken up his Clay-cold Lodging here.
Suspended now his fiddle lies asleep,
That once with Musick us’d to charm the Ear.
Not for his Hannah long reserv’d to weep,
John yields to Fate with his companion dear.
So tenderly he loved his dearer part,
His Fondness could not bear a stay behind;
And Death through Kindness seem’d to throw the dart
To ease his sorrow, as he knew his mind.
In cheerful Labours all their Time they spent,
Their happy Lives in Length of Days acquir’d;
But Hand in Hand to Nature’s God they went,
And just lay down to sleep when they were tir’d.
The Relicks of this faithful, honest Pair
One little Space of Mother Earth contains.
Let Earth protect them with a Mother’s Care,
And Constant Verdure grace her for her pains.
The Pledges of their tender love remain,
For seven fine children bless’d their nuptial State.
Behold them, neighbours! nor behold in vain,
But heal their Sorrows and their lost Estate. |
In the Old Cemetery, Newport, Monmouthshire, on a Scotch piper, the following appears:—
To the memory of Mr. John Macbeth late piper to His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, and a native of the Highlands of Scotland:
Died April 24th, 1852, Aged 46 years.
Far from his native land, beneath this stone,
Lies John Macbeth, in prime of manhood gone;
A kinder husband never yet did breathe,
A firmer friend ne’er trod on Albyn’s heath;
His selfish aims were all in heart and hand,
To be an honour to his native land,
As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand.
A handsome Gael he was, of splendid form,
Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm.
Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness,
“How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!”
His mind was stored with ancient Highland lore;
Knew Ossian’s songs, and many bards of yore;
But music was his chief, and soul’s delight.
And oft he played, with Amphion’s skill and might,
His Highland pipe, before our Gracious Queen!
’Mong Ladies gay, and Princesses serene!
His magic chanter’s strains pour’d o’er their hearts,
With thrilling rapture soft as Cupid’s darts!
Like Shakespeare’s witches, scarce they drew the breath,
But wished, like them, to say, “All hail, Macbeth!”
The Queen, well pleased, gave him by high command,
A splendid present from her Royal hand;
But nothing aye could make him vain or proud,
He felt alike at Court or in a crowd;
With high and low his nature was to please,
Frank with the Peasant, with the Prince at ease.
Beloved by thousands till his race was run,
Macbeth had ne’er a foe beneath the sun;
And now he plays among the Heavenly bands,
A diamond chanter never made with hands. |
In the church at Ashover, Derbyshire, a tablet contains this inscription:—
To the Memory of
David Wall,
whose superior performance on the
bassoon endeared him to an
extensive musical acquaintance.
His social life closed on the
4th Dec., 1796, in his 57th year.
The next is copied from a gravestone in Stoney Middleton churchyard:—
In memory of George, the son of George and Margaret Swift, of Stoney Middleton, who departed this life August the 21st, 1759, in the 20th year of his age.
We the Quoir of Singers of this Church have erected this stone.