It was but a short way from Bognor to the village of Felpham, where William Blake lived for some time to be near his friend Hayley the poet, who--the poet, that is--gained some repute in his day, though his popularity has not stood Time's trying test. Of Hayley it may be said, "Everything was good about him but his poetry." Still he wrote pleasant enough verse, though his thoughts were not deep. The last lines he composed to the swallows on his roof may be quoted as an example, not of his best, nor yet of his worst: Ye gentle birds that perch aloof, And smooth your pinions on my roof, Preparing for departure hence Ere winter's angry threats commence; Like you my soul would smooth her plume For longer flights beyond the tomb. Hayley, who was given to writing epitaphs, also composed the well-known and much-quoted one to a local blacksmith that is to be found in Felpham churchyard, which runs thus: My sledge and hammer lie reclin'd, My bellows too have lost their wind, My fire's extinct, my forge decay'd, And in the dust my vice is laid, My coal is spent, my iron gone, The nails are driven, my work is done. This epitaph has been frequently repeated elsewhere; I have come upon it in at least a dozen churchyards, sometimes with variations that are no improvements. An epitaph once popular soon became common property. Twice when touring in the Eastern Counties did a clerk of a church declare in effect, knowing I was in search of quaint epitaphs, "Now I can show you a curious one to a blacksmith that is quite original," only to find, once again, Hayley's epitaph there; and I really do not think I have ever been in a churchyard without coming upon the everlasting--and irritating because so commonplace-- Afflictions sore Long time he (or she) bore. Whoever originated these lines has much to answer for. On the other hand, the man who had simply inscribed on his wife's tombstone "Though lost to sight to memory dear," without a thought of such a thing has given us a classic quotation. Here, however, are two epitaphs that strike a fresh note. The first is at Cobham to a photographer, both brief and to the point, for all it says is "Taken from life." Another to John Knott, a scissor-grinder, may be found in smoky Sheffield: Here lies a man that was Knott born, His father was Knott before him, He lived Knott and did Knott die, Yet underneath this stone doth lie Knott christened, Knott begot, And here he lies And yet was Knott.