To the memory of THOMAS TIPPER who departed this life May the 14th 1785 Aged 54 Years.

READER, with kind regard this GRAVE survey Nor heedless pa.s.s where TIPPER'S ashes lay, Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt, and kind; And dared do, what few dare do, speak his mind, PHILOSOPHY and HISTORY well he knew, Was versed in PHYSICK and in Surgery too, The best old STINGO he both brewed and sold, Nor did one knavish act to get his Gold.

He played through Life a varied comic part, And knew immortal HUDIBRAS by heart.

READER, in real truth, such was the Man, Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can.

The next, on John Scott, a Liverpool brewer, is rather rich in puns:--

Poor JOHN SCOTT lies buried here; Although he was both hale and stout Death stretched him on the bitter bier.

In another world he hops about.

On a butler in Ollerton churchyard is the following curious epitaph:--

Beneath the droppings of this spout, Here lies the body once so stout, Of FRANCIS THOMPSON.

A soul this carcase once possess'd, Which of its virtues was caress'd, By all who knew the owner best.

The Ruffords records can declare, His action who, for seventy year, Both drew and drank its potent beer; Fame mentions not in all that time, In this great Butler the least crime, To stain his reputation.

To envy's self we now appeal, If aught of fault she can reveal, To make her declaration.

Here rest good shade, nor h.e.l.l nor vermin fear, Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.

He died July 6th, 1739.

We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal churchyard; it is on Joseph Thackerey, who died on the 26th of November, 1791:--

In the year of our Lord 1740 I came to the Crown; In 1791 they laid me down.

The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving of the spiritual with the temporal:--

Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion, Doth lie the landlord of the "Lion,"

His son keeps on the business still, Resign'd unto the Heavenly will.

In 1789 pa.s.sed away the landlady of the "Pig and Whistle," Greenwich, and the following lines were inscribed to her memory:--

a.s.sign'd by Providence to rule a tap, My days pa.s.s'd glibly, till an awkward rap, Some way, like bankruptcy, impell'd me down.

But up I got again and shook my gown In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever, Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather; Composed with creditors, at five in pound, And frolick'd on till laid beneath this ground.

The debt of nature must, you know, be paid, No trust from her--G.o.d grant _extent in aid_.

On an innkeeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen:--

In memory of JOHN BUCKETT, Many year's landlord of the King's Head Inn, in this Borough, Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802.

Aged 67 years.

And is, alas! poor Buckett gone?

Farewell, convivial, honest John.

Oft at the well, by fatal stroke, Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.

In this same motley shifting scene, How various have thy fortunes been!

Now lifted high--now sinking low.

To-day thy brim would overflow, Thy bounty then would all supply, To fill and drink, and leave thee dry; To-morrow sunk as in a well, Content, unseen, with truth to dwell: But high or low, or wet or dry, No rotten stave could malice spy.

Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise, And claim thy station in the skies; 'Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine, Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.

From the "Sportive Wit; the Muses' Merriment," issued in 1656, we extract the following lines on John Taylor, "the Water Poet," who was a native of Gloucester, and died in Phoenix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent Garden churchyard:--

Here lies JOHN TAYLOR, without rime or reason, For death struck his muse in so cold a season, That JACK lost the use of his scullers to row: The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.

Alas, poor JACK TAYLOR! this 'tis to drink ale With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale, It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack With Draiton and Jonson to quaff off thy sack, They'd infus'd thee a genius should ne'er expire, And have thaw'd thy muse with elemental fire.

Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit, Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit.

The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation Sirnamed thee the _water-poet_ of the nation.

Who can write more of thee let him do't for me.

A ---- take all rimers, JACK TAYLOR, but thee.

Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse, Over the stone of so merry a muse.

Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper, Mauchline:--

Here lies JOHNNY PIGEON: What was his religion?

Whae'er desires to ken, To some other warl'

Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny had none!

Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer persecution, A dram was _memento mori_; But a full flowing bowl Was the saving of his soul, And port was celestial glory.

We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following on a publican:--

A jolly landlord once was I, And kept the Old King's Head hard by, Sold mead and gin, cider and beer, And eke all other kinds of cheer, Till Death my license took away, And put me in this house of clay: A house at which you all must call, Sooner or later, great or small.

It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe's entertaining volume, "Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions," that in the churchyard of Edwalton is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable landowner, who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a very free liver, for her memorial says:--

She drank good ale, strong punch and wine, And lived to the age of ninety-nine.

A gravestone in Darenth churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following epitaph:--

Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more For what he lov'd did turn his foe; For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day, The Debt he owed he then did pay.

At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given:--

Weep not for him, the warmest tear that's shed Falls unavailing o'er the unconscious dead; Take the advice these friendly lines would give, Live not to drink, but only drink to live.

From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following:--

Hail!

This stone marks the spot Where a notorious sot Doth lie; Whether at rest or not It matters not To you or I.

Oft to the "Lion" he went to fill his horn, Now to the "Grave" he's gone to get it warm.

_Beered by public subscription by his hale and stout companions, who deeply lament his absence._

From St. Peter's Mancroft, Norwich, are the following lines on Sarah Byfield, who died in 1719, comparing life to a market:--

Death is a market where all must meet, It's found in every city, town, and street.

If we our lives like merchandise could buy, The rich would ever live, the poor alone must die.

On a gravestone in the churchyard of Eton, placed to the memory of an innkeeper, it is stated:--

Life's an inn; my house will shew it: I thought so once, but now I know it.

Man's life is but a winter's day; Some only breakfast and away; Others to dinner stop, and are full fed; The oldest man but sups and then to bed: Large is his debt who lingers out the day; He who goes soonest has the least to pay.