Beneath the droppings of this spout, Here lies the body once so stout, Of Francis Thompson. A soul this carcase once possess'd, Which of its virtues was caress'd, By all who knew the owner best. The Rufford records can declare, His actions, who for seventy year, Both drew and drank its potent beer; Fame mentions not in all that time, In this great Butler the least crime, To stain his reputation. To envy's self we now appeal, If aught of fault she can reveal, To make her declaration. Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear, Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer. He died July 6th, 1739. We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal churchyard; it is on JOSEPH THACKEREY, who died on the 26th of November, 1791:-- In the year of our Lord 1740 I came to the Crown; In 1791 they laid me down. The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving of the spiritual with the temporal:-- Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion, Doth lie the landlord of the "Lion," His son keeps on the business still, Resign'd unto the Heavenly will. In 1789 passed away the landlady of the "Pig and Whistle," Greenwich, and the following lines were inscribed to her memory:-- Assign'd by Providence to rule a tap, My days pass'd gibly, till an awkward rap, Some way, like bankruptcy, impell'd me down. But up I got again and shook my gown In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever, Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather; Composed with creditors, at five in pound, And frolick'd on till laid beneath this ground. The debt of Nature must, you know, be paid, No trust from her--God grant _extent in aid_. On an inn-keeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen:-- In memory of JOHN BUCKETT, Many years landlord of the King's Head Inn, in this Borough, Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802. Aged 67 years. And is, alas! poor Buckett gone? Farewell, convivial, honest John. Oft at the well, by fatal stroke, Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke. In this same motley shifting scene, How various have thy fortunes been! Now lifted high--now sinking low. To-day thy brim would overflow, Thy bounty then would all supply, To fill and drink, and leave thee dry; To-morrow sunk as in a well, Content, unseen, with truth to dwell: But high or low, or wet or dry, No rotten stave could malice spy. Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise, And claim thy station in the skies; 'Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine, Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.