Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/591

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Epitaphs.
573
Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her;Her soul? I know not, but can tell, Old Nick could ne'er abide her.
Which makes me guess she's gone aloft, For in the last great thunder,Methought I heard her well-known voice Rending the skies asunder.
On a Beautiful and Virtuous Young Lady.
Sleep soft in dust, wait the Almghty's will,Then rise unchanged, and be an angel still.
On a Cobbler.
Death at a cobbler's door oft made a stand,And always found him on the mending hand.At last came death in very dirty weather,And ripped the sole from off the upper leather.Death put a trick upon him, and what was't?The cobbler called for's awl, Death brought his last.
On an Infant in Wisbeach Churchyard.
Beneath a sleeping infant lies; To earth her body's lent;More glorious she'll hereafter rise, Though not more innocent.When the Archangel's trump shall blow, And souls to bodies join,Millions will wish their lives below Had been as short as thine.
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