Epitaph on John Simpson, of Hamsterley

While visiting this dark abode,
Here, reader, turn thy wand’ring eyes;
Tread light, for underneath this sod,
SIMPSON, the Village Poet, lies.

The people’s follies, and their vice,
As frequently as he found leisure,
He hunted down (as cats do mice)
In strains of true poetic measure.

So neatly he his subject hit,
So well he temper’d truth with sense;
The simple marvell’d at his wit,
And wise men seldom took offence.

His genius and invention such,
From each event he’d something gather;
For nought ’scap’d his satiric touch,
That fairly came within his tether.

Nor ’scap’d he death;--His race is run,
(So fall the witty and the brave!)
His wool is comb’d, his thread is spun;
And daisies flourish round his grave!