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G r av e y ar d H u m o r | 99

Here lieth W. W.
Who never more will trouble you, trouble you.

282. On a Miser:—

Reader, beware of immoderate love of pelf:
Here lies the worst of thieves, who robbed himself.

283. From the Old Cemetery, Newport, Monmouthshire:—

On James Austin, Engine-driver.

“He was a man.”
—Shakespeare.

284. From the same place. On a Scotch Piper:—

To the memory of Mr. John Macbeth, late piper to His Grace the Duke
of Sutherland, and a native of the Highlands of Scotland:

th
Died April 24 , 1852, Aged 46 years.
Far from his native land, beneath this stone,
Lies John Macbeth, in prime of manhood gone;
A kinder husband never yet did breathe,
A finer friend ne’er trod on Albyn’s heath;
His selfish aims were all in heart and hand,
To be an honour to his native land,
As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand;
A handsome Gael he was of splendid form,
Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm.
Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness,
“How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!”
His mind was stored with ancient Highland lore;
Knew Ossian’s songs, and many Bards of yore;
But music was his chief, and soul’s delight,
And oft he played, with Amphion’s skill and might,
His Highland pipe, before our Gracious Queen!