With beef and brandy kill all kinds of care; We'll beer and biscuit on our table heap, And rail at rascals, till we fall asleep." Such was their life; but when the woodman died, His grieving kin for Roger's smiles applied - In vain; he shut, with stern rebuke, the door, And dying, built a refuge for the poor, With this restriction, That no Cuff should share One meal, or shelter for one moment there. My Record ends:- But hark! e'en now I hear The bell of death, and know not whose to fear: Our farmers all, and all our hinds were well; In no man's cottage danger seem'd to dwell: - Yet death of man proclaim these heavy chimes, For thrice they sound, with pausing space, three times, "Go; of my Sexton seek, Whose days are sped? - What! he, himself!- and is old Dibble dead?" His eightieth year he reach'd, still undecay d, And rectors five to one close vault convey'd:- But he is gone; his care and skill I lose, And gain a mournful subject for my Muse: His masters lost, he'd oft in turn deplore, And kindly add,--"Heaven grant, I lose no more!" Yet, while he spake, a sly and pleasant glance Appear'd at variance with his complaisance: For, as he told their fate and varying worth, He archly look'd,--"I yet may bear thee forth." "When first"--(he so began)--"my trade I plied, Good master Addle was the parish-guide; His clerk and sexton, I beheld with fear, His stride majestic, and his frown severe; A noble pillar of the church he stood, Adorn'd with college-gown and parish hood: Then as he paced the hallow'd aisles about, He fill'd the seven-fold surplice fairly out! But in his pulpit wearied down with prayer, He sat and seem'd as in his study's chair; For while the anthem swell'd, and when it ceased, Th'expecting people view'd their slumbering priest; Who, dozing, died.--Our Parson Peele was next; 'I will not spare you,' was his favourite text; Nor did he spare, but raised them many a pound; E'en me he mulct for my poor rood of ground; Yet cared he nought, but with a gibing speech, 'What should I do,' quoth he, 'but what I preach?' His piercing jokes (and he'd a plenteous store) Were daily offer'd both to rich and poor; His scorn, his love, in playful words he spoke; His pity, praise, and promise, were a joke: But though so young and blest with spirits high, He died as grave as any judge could die: The strong attack subdued his lively powers, - His was the grave, and Doctor Grandspear ours. "Then were there golden times the village round; In his abundance all appear'd t'abound; Liberal and rich, a plenteous board he spread, E'en cool Dissenters at his table fed; Who wish'd and hoped,--and thought a man so kind A way to Heaven, though not their own, might find. To them, to all, he was polite and free, Kind to the poor, and, ah! most kind to me! 'Ralph,' would he say, 'Ralph Dibble, thou art old; That doublet fit, 'twill keep thee from the cold: How does my sexton?- What! the times are hard; Drive that stout pig, and pen him in thy yard.'