Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes;
Tread light, for underneath this sod,
Simpson, the Village Poet, lies.
The people’s follies, and their vice,
As frequently as he found leisure,
He hunted down (as cats do mice)
In strains of true poetic measure.
So neatly he his subject hit,
So well he temper’d truth with sense;
The simple marvell’d at his wit,