Tray's Epitaph 



Here rest the relics of a friend below 



Blest with more sense than half the folks I 



know ; 

 Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, 

 He damn'd no feet, but calmly gnaw'd his bone : 

 Performed his functions well in ev'ry way — 

 Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy 



Tray. 



The Curate of the Huntingtonian Band, 

 Rare breed of gospel hawks that scour the land, 

 And fierce on sins their quarry fall, 

 Those Locusts, that would eat us all : 



Men who with new-invented patent eyes, 

 See Heav'n and all the angels in the skies ; 

 As plain as in the box of Showman Swiss, 

 For little Master made, and curious Miss, 

 We see with huge delight the king of France 

 With all his Lords and Ladies dance : 



This Curate heard th' affair with deep emotion, 

 And thus exclaim'd, with infinite devotion : 



" O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! O Lord ! 



Fine doings these, upon my word ! 



" This, truly, is a pretty thing ! 



What will become of this most shocking world ? 



92 



