Classic Poem

Harvey — whose inn commands a view
Of Bedfont's church, and churchyard too,
Where yew-trees into peacocks shorn,
In vegetable torture mourn,
Is liable, no doubt, to glooms
From " meditations on the tombs. "
But while he meditates he cooks,
Thus both to quick and dead he looks;
Turning his mind to nothing, save
Thoughts on man's gravy and his grave.
Long may he keep from churchyard holes
Our bodies with his sauce for soles!
Long may he hinder Death from beckoning
His guests to settle their last reckoning!