A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.

_On John Underwood._

Oh cruel Death, that dost no good,
With thy destructive maggots;
Now thou hast cropt our Underwood,
What shall we do for fagots?

_In Dorchester Churchyard._

Frank from his Betty snatch'd by Fate,
Shows how uncertain is our state;
He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead--
Flung from a horse that kick'd his head.
But tho' he's gone, from tears refrain,
At judgment he'll get up again.

* * * * *


EPITAPHS IN BROMSGROVE CHURCHYARD.