Here's a corpse in the case with a sad swell'd face

But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe.

Now haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!

Next morning I was up betimes — I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried, "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

Though I 've always consider'd Sir Christopher Wren, As an architect, one of the greatest of men; And, — talking of Epitaphs, — much I admire his "Circumspice, si Monumentum requiris;" Which an erudite Verger translated to me, " If you ask …

What was to be done? — 'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again: — What was to be done? — The man was dead! — Nought could be done — nought could be said; So — my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

The jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair! Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Many a monk, and many a friar, Many a knight, and many a squire, With a great many more of lesser degree,— In sooth, a goodly company;