Poor Peter Staggs now rests beneath this rail,
Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;
For twenty years he did the duties well,
Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the ‘Bell.’
But Death stepp’d in, and order’d Peter Staggs
To feed his worms, and leave the farmers’ nags.
The church clock struck one—alas! ’twas Peter’s knell,
Who sigh’d, ‘I’m coming—that’s the ostler’s bell!’”
Peace to his manes!