In losing him, we lost a look’d-for treat.
“The next, with solemn march, in blue array
(A crowd behind with strong tumultuous din,)
Two bobbies came. They’d found him on the way,
With beer o’ercome, and so they ran him in!”
The Epitaph.
Here rests, with his old head upon a stone,
A man who smoked till he did reason drown.
To-morrow morn the mayor, all fully blown,
Will frown on him, and fine him half-a-crown.