232 EPITAPHS ON ANGLERS. 



EPITAPH. 



Here lies poor Thompson all alone, 



As dead and cold as any stone. 



In wading in the river Nith, 



He took a cold, which stopp'd his breath. 



He fish'd the stream for ten years past, 



Death caught him in his net at last. 



Written on a Tombstone in Dumfries-shire, 1790. 



EPITAPH. 



Here lies within this tomb so still, 

 Old G-iles, pray sound his knell, 

 Who sat for years by purling rill, 

 And us'd the rod right well. 



Somersetshire, 1810. 

 EPITAPH. 



John Day, an angler of renown, 



Moulders beneath this stone, 

 With worm he caught the speckl'd trout, 



But to his home he's gone. 

 Worms for his bait, he'd many a feast, 



We'll never see him more : 

 His body's gone, and in its turn, 



Must feed worms by the score. 



Devonshire, 1793. 

 EPITAPH. 



Here he lies an angler good, 



Lately made of flesh and blood ; 



Who has left his rod behind, 



Tackle of an artful kind j 



Give him honour lightly tread 



The sod now pressing on his head. 1784. 



