“I jog along the footpath way, For a merry heart goes all the day; But at night, whoever may flout and rail, I sit down with my friend, the jug of ale, With my good old friend, the jug of ale. “Whether the sweet or sour of the year, I tramp and tramp though the gallows be near. Oh, while I’ve a shilling I will not fail To drown my cares in a jug of ale, Drown my cares in a jug of ale!” To which old Amen, as the parish clerk was called, in order to be orthodox, would add from the same convivial prelate’s farce-comedy of “Gammer Gurton’s Needle:”— “I cannot eat but little meat My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood.” A pleasant cheerful glass or two, Tom was wont to say, would hurt nobody, and he could toss off a horn or two of “October” without moving a muscle or winking an eye. His constitution was as sound as a roach; and whilst he could get up early and sniff the fragrant gale, they did not appear to tell. But he had a spark in his throat, as he said, and he indulged in such frequent libations to extinguish it, that, towards the end of the year 1796, he was well nigh worn out. After a while, finding himself becoming weak, and feeling that his end was approaching, he expressed a desire to see his old master, who at once gratified the wish of the sufferer, and, without thinking that his end was so near, inquired what he wanted. “I have,” said Tom, “one request to make, and it is the last favour I shall crave.” “Well,” said the Squire, “what is it, Tom?” “My time here won’t be long,” Tom added; “and when I am dead I wish to be buried at Barrow, under the yew tree, in the churchyard there, and to be carried to the grave by six earth-stoppers; my old horse, with my whip, boots, spurs, and cap, slung on each side of the saddle, and the brush of the last fox when I was up at the death, at the side of the forelock, and two couples of old hounds to follow me to the grave as mourners. When I am laid in the grave let three halloos be given over me; and then, if I don’t lift up my head, you may fairly conclude that Tom Moody’s dead.” The old whipper-in expired shortly afterwards, and his request was carried out to the letter, as the following characteristic letter from the Squire to his friend Chambers, describing the circumstances, will show:— “DEAR CHAMBERS,