"Stanzas to the Memory of W. G." by William Shenstone

                                                I

    O wight, that travell'st this Church-Yard! 
       Mark what this Stone doth tell; 
    And if thou but unletter'd art, 
       Sit down awhile and spell. 


                                               II

    Thou art, God-wot, both brisk and strong, 
       And think'st not yet to die. 
    Lo! e'er Death laid me all along, 
       Just such a one was I. 


                                               III

    Death makes the stoutest Mortal start, 
       Few are courageous then: 
    Yet, when I saw I must depart, 
       I boldly cry'd,---Amen. 



                                               IV

    I wot not well, how others can, 
       The Folk to Heaven bring; 
    But well I trow, I was the Man, 
       That led them in a String. 


                                                V

    I hawk'd, and hem'd, and sung and spit, 
       And vex'd my Throat full sore: 
    Some when I sung, were pleas'd at it, 
       And some---when I gave o'er. 


                                               VI

    Certes, there are will hum a Tune, 
       And sing a Song right well: 
    Yet sure no Song was like my Psalm, 
       No Musick like my Bell. 


                                               VII

    To praise the L---d did I abound, 
       (So far, as Sternhold goes:) 
    And, lest my Lips shou'd spoil the Sound, 
       I prais'd him thro' my Nose. 



                                              VIII

    Tho' wicked Folk might laugh and sneer, 
       And be to Mirth full prone; 
    Yet to the Saints it was right dear; 
       For why?---the Gospel tone. 

                                               IX


    But Death will not to Sound give Way, 
       To Musick not incline: 
    For, if he wou'd for any stay, 
       He sure had stay'd for mine. 


                                                X

    Tho' now o'erwhelm'd with Mire and Clay, 
       The Pit doth me retain; 
    Yet do I hope to see a Day 
       Of getting up again. 


                                               XI

    Just so, when Folks at Church are found, 
       (For this is good and wise) 
    There is a Time to sit ye down, 
       And eke a Time to rise. 


                                               XII

    And O! may ev'ry Reader kind 
       Bestow one Tear, or Sigh; 
    For sure 'twill touch him near, to find 
       That mortal Man shou'd die. 


                                              XIII

    And die he must; 'tis vain to plead 
       Wit, Scholarship, or Pride: 
    Great Sternhold, Hopkins, all are fled! 
       And I, their Servant, died!