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G r av e y ar d H u m o r | 107

No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he gave our old organ many a blast!
No puffer was he, though a capital blower;
He could blow double C, and now lies a note lower.

315. From Bury St. Edmunds. On a Printer:—

Like a worn-out type he is returned to the founder, in hopes of being
re-cast in a better and more perfect mould.

316. From a Churchyard in Essex:—

Here lies the man Richard,
And Mary his wife;
Their surname was Pritchard,
They lived without strife.
And the reason was plain:
They abounded in riches,
They had no care or pain,
And the wife wore the breeches.

317. On Mr. Jones, a celebrated bone merchant:—

Here lies the bones of William Jones,
Who, when alive, collected bones;
But Death, that bony, grizzly spectre,
That most amazing bone collector,
Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy,
That here he lies in bonâ fide.

318. On a Photographer:—

Here I am, taken from life.

319. On a Mrs. Penny:—