XX
Epitaphs
I
Here lies a man who never did
Anything but what he was bid;
Who lived his life in paltry ease,
And died of commonplace disease.
II
The angler rose, he took his rod,
He kneeled and made his prayers to God.
The living God sat overhead:
The angler tripped, the eels were fed.
III. ON HIMSELF
He may have been this and that,
A drunkard or a guttler;
He may have been bald and fat—
At least he kept a butler.
He may have sprung from ill or well,
From Emperor or sutler;
He may be burning now in Hell—
On earth he kept a butler.
IV. ON HIMSELF AT THE PIANO
Where is now the Père Martini?
Where is Bumptious Boccherini?
Where are Hertz and Crotch and Batch?
—Safe in bed in Colney Hatch?
