Part 9

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The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.

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 Phoebus' _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!"

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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.

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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.

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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!"

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Over a grave in Prince Edward's Island.

Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb, Killed by a tree that fell slap bang.

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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.

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Here lies John Bunn, Who was killed by a gun; His name wasn't Bun, his real name was Wood, But Wood wouldn't rhyme with gun, so I thought Bun should.

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In Memory of THE STATE LOTTERY, the last of a long line whose origin in England commenced in the year 1569, which, after a series of tedious complaints, _Expired_ on the 18th day of October, 1826. During a period of 257 years, the family flourished under the powerful protection of the British Parliament; the minister of the day continuing to give them his support for the improvement of the revenue. As they increased, it was found that their continuance corrupted the morals, and encouraged a spirit of speculation and gambling among the lower classes of the people; thousands of whom fell victims to their insinuating and tempting allurements. Many philanthropic individuals in the Senate at various times for a series of years, pointed out their baneful influence without effect, His Majesty's Ministers still affording them their countenance and protection. The British Parliament being at length convinced of their mischievous tendency, HIS MAJESTY GEORGE IV., on the 9th July, 1823, pronounced sentence of condemnation on the whole race; from which time they were almost NEGLECTED BY THE BRITISH PUBLIC. Very great efforts were made by the Partisans and friends of the family to excite the public feeling in favour of the last of the race, in vain: it continued to linger out the few remaining moments of its existence without attention or sympathy, and finally terminated its career, unregretted by any virtuous mind.

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'Twas by a fall I caught my death; No man can tell his time or breath; I might have died as soon as then If I had had physician men.

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On a Grocer.

Garret some call'd him, but that was too hye; His name is Garrard who now here doth lie; Weepe not for him, since he is gone before To heaven, where Grocers there are many more.

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THE END.

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F. PICKTON, Printer, Perry's Place, 29 Oxford Street.

NOTES.

{48} A crown.

{80a} The stone joins to the south wall of the church, under one of the spouts.

{80b} Rufford Abbey, then the seat of Sir George Saville, Baronet, in whose family the person had lived as butler.

{90} A woman inferring that her husband is an _ass colt_.