His last _steak_ done; his fire rak’d out and dead, _Dished_ for the worms himself, lies _honest Ned_: _We_, then, whose breasts bore all his _fleshly toils_, Took all his _bastings_, and shared all his _broils_; Now, in our turn, a _mouthful carve_ and _trim_, And _dress_ at Phœbus’ _fire_, one _scrap_ for him:— His heart which well might grace the noblest grave, Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave; And ne’er did earth’s wide maw _a morsel_ gain Of _kindlier juices_ or more tender _grain_; His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt, Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt; Still to whatever end his _chops_ he mov’d, ’Twas all _well seasoned_, _relished_, and approv’d: This room his heaven!—When threatening Fate drew nigh The closing shade that dimm’d his ling’ring eye, His last fond hopes, betray’d by many a tear, Were—That his life’s last _spark_ might glimmer here; And the last words that choak’d his parting sigh— “Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!” * * * * * Ann Short. Ann _Short_, O Lord, of praising thee, Nothing I can do is right; Needy and naked, poor I be, _Short_, Lord, I am of sight: How _short_ I am of love and grace! Of everything I’m _short_, Renew me, then I’ll follow peace Through good and bad report. * * * * * Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan, Who blew the bellows of our Church organ; Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling, Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling; No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast, Tho’ he gave our old organist many a blast. No puffer was he, Tho’ a capital blower; He could fill double G, And now lies a note lower. * * * * * In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably placed there as a _memento to Italian Toby Philpots_:— “Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of morning in a sober state. Even my bones are now thirsty. Stranger, sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come. Farewell Drinkers!” * * * * * Over a grave in Prince Edward’s Island. Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb, Killed by a tree that fell slap bang. * * * * * Here lies the body of Gabriel John, Who died in the year of a thousand and one; Pray for the soul of Gabriel John, You may if you please, Or let it alone; For its all one To Gabriel John, Who died in the year of a thousand and one. * * * * *