These lines refer to a singular coincidence respecting his wives; both their maiden names were Mary Thompson, and both were aged fifty-one at their death. In 1810, May 21, he married his third and surviving wife at St. Mary’s church, Nottingham; and, excepting a journey to Edinburgh, and another to London, they lived in various parts of the town till his decease. David’s forte lay principally in religious acrostics and hymns, for which he had a good demand among the pious inhabitants. The following is inserted as being a short one:—
| To Ann Short, Who said, “I am short of every thing.” | |
| A | m short, O Lord, of praising thee, |
| N | othing I can do right; |
| N | eedy and naked, poor I be, |
| S | hort, Lord, I am of sight: |
| H | ow short I am of love and grace! |
| O | f every thing I’m short: |
| R | enew me, then I’ll follow peace |
| T | hrough good and bad report. |
In person David was below the middle stature; his features were not unhandsome for an old man; his walk was exceedingly slow, deliberately placing one foot before the other, in order perhaps to give his customers time to hear what he had got; his voice was clear, and strongly marked with the Scotch accent. He possessed a readiness of wit and repartee, which is often united with aspiring talents in lower life. A tribute to Love’s memory, written on the day of his burial, may not be unacceptable
Elegy, written in
St Mary’s Church yard, Nottingham.
The sexton tolls the knell of David Love,
The funeral train treads slowly thro’ the street,
Old General,[307] wand in hand, with crape above,
Conducts the pageant with demeanour meet.
Now stops the mournful train beside the grave,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save when the clerk repeats his twanging stave,
And on the coffin fall the pattering moulds;
Save that from yonder grass-surrounded stone,
The whining schoolboy loudly does complain
Of such, as crowding round his mossy throne,
Invade his tottering transitory reign.
Beneath those rugged stones, that corner’s shade,
And trodden grass in rough mis-shapen heap,
(Unless by Friday’s art away convey’d,[308])
In order due, what various bodies sleep.
The call of “coals,” the cry of sooty sweep,
The twist machine[309] loud lumbering over head;
The jacks’ shrill whirring,[310] oft disturbing sleep—
No more shall rouse them from their well-flock’d bed.
For them no more the Indian weed shall burn,
Or bustling landlord fill his beverage rare;
No shopmates hail their comrade’s wish’d return,
Applaud his song, and in his chorus share.