EPITAPHS ON ANGLERS. 231 



EPITAPH. 



Beneath in the dust, 



The mouldy old crust 



Of Ned Carpenter lately was laid ; 



He was skilled with the fly 



And with cunning sharp eye, 



Knew every trout-pool in the glade. 



Having fish'd long enough, 



Death, in tones rather gruff, 



Said, " I'll just put a hook in your gill," 



So here he doth rest, 



And we hope he'll be blest, 



When he hears the trump's sound loud and shrill. 1792. 



LINES WKITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, IN AN INN, 

 IN SOMERSETSHIRE. 



Here lies Tommy Montague, 

 Whose love for Angling daily grew j 

 He died regretted, while late out, 

 To make a capture of a trout." 



EPITAPH. 



Anglers promised, when I died, 



That they would each spring-tide, 



Daily morn and evening come, 



And do the honours of my tomb : 



Having promised pay your debts, 



Anglers here strew violets. 1801. 



