Fine merry franions,
Wanton companions,
My days are ev’n banyans
With thinking upon ye;
How Death, that last stringer,
Finis-writer, end-bringer,
Has laid his chill finger,
Or is laying, on ye.
2.
There’s rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly
That took me completely,
She sleeps in the Kirk-house;
And poor Polly Perkin,
Whose Dad was still ferking
The jolly ale firkin—
She’s gone to the Work-house:
3.
Fine gard’ner, Ben Carter
(In ten counties no smarter)
Has ta’en his departure
For Proserpine’s orchards;
And Lily, postillion,
With cheeks of vermilion,
Is one of a million
That fill up the church-yards.
4.
And, lusty as Dido,
Fat Clemitson’s widow
Flits now a small shadow
By Stygian hid ford;
And good Master Clapton
Has thirty years nap’t on
The ground he last hap’t on;
Intomb’d by fair Widford;
5.
And gallant Tom Docwra,
Of Nature’s finest crockery,
Now but thin air and mockery,
Lurks by Avernus;
Whose honest grasp of hand,
Still, while his life did stand,
At friend’s or foe’s command,
Almost did burn us.
6.