On a good old Tailor, who died Dec. 11th, 1834, aged 68 years.

No honor'd dust in pomp is sleeping here.
Yet should this grave though mean our reverence share—
Kings may make lords ; to them such work is given,
An honest tailor is the work of heaven.

And such was he, now here in peace reclined,
Of the best 'cut' his maker e'er designed ;
Though plain, the 'make,' the 'workmanship' was good,
And three score years and eight the 'fabric' stood.

Firm the material, thread-bare, yet it grew,
The healing art could 'patch' but not renew ;
His 'measure' fill'd, he sought his native dust.
And left his life a 'pattern' for the just.

Princes and kings would they be truly great
Like him 'to order' must their work complete.
And priests and bishops will be greatly bless'd
If they so well their 'customers' have 'dress'd.'

Leave, traveller, in peace, his lowly bed,
Follow the 'fashion' he so wisely led ;
While here, thy life the various fates controul
Of 'shreds and patches' make a 'comely whole.