From the "Sportive Wit: the Muses' Merriment," issued in 1656, we extract the following lines on John Taylor, "the Water Poet," who was a native of Gloucester, and died in Phoenix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent Garden Churchyard:-- Here lies John Taylor, without rime or reason, For death struck his muse in so cold a season, That Jack lost the use of his scullers to row: The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go. Alas, poor Jack Taylor! this 'tis to drink ale With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale, It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack With Draiton and Johnson to quaff off thy sack, They'd infus'd thee a genius should ne'er expire, And have thaw'd thy muse with elemental fire. Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit, Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit, The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation Sirnamed thee the _water-poet_ of the nation. Who can write more of thee let him do't for me. A ---- take all rimers, Jack Taylor, but thee. Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse, Over the stone of so merry a muse. Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper, Mauchline:-- Here lies Johnny Pigeon: What was his religion? Whae'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny had none! Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer persecution, A dram was _memento mori_; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving of his soul, And port was celestial glory. We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following on a publican:-- 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 or small. It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe's entertaining volume, "Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions," that in the churchyard of Edwalton is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable land-owner, who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a very free liver, for her memorial says: She drank good ale, strong punch and wine, And lived to the age of ninety-nine. A gravestone in Darneth Churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following epitaph:-- Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more, For what he lov'd did turn his foe: For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day, The Debt he owed he then did pay. At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given:-- Weep not for him, the warmest tear that's shed Falls unavailing o'er the unconscious dead; Take the advice these friendly lines would give, Live not to drink, but only drink to live. From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following:--