St. Mary's Eathedral, Limerick.

On the Pillar near the western door.

MOMENTO MORI.

Here lieth little Samuel Barrington, that great under: taker,

Of famous cities, clock and chime maker ;
He made his own time to go early and later,
But now he's return'd to God, his Creator;
The 19th November then he ceas'd,

And for his memory, this is here plac'd.

BY HIS SON BEN, 1693.

In Dundalk church-yard.

ON ROBERT MOORE.

Here lies the body of Robert Moore,
What signifies more words?

Who kill'd himself by eating of cur :
But if he had been rul'd by Sarah his wife,
He might have liv'd all the days of his life.

Armagh church-yard,

The following Inscription is placed under a diab erected over the grave of

EDWARD BOND, Esq

Who ordered one hundred pounds to be given to the Poor, instead of a pompous funeral, 1744.

No marble pomp, no monumental praise;
My tomb this dial, my epitaph these lays.
Pride and low mould'ring clay but ill agree;
Death levels me to beggars: kings to me.
Alive, instruction was my work each day;
Dead, I persist instruction to convey.
Here, Reader! mark (perhaps now in thy prime)
The stealing steps of never-standing time:
Thou'lt be what I am; catch the present hour;
Employ that well, for that's within thy power.

MISCELLANIOUS.

To the memory of MR. BURGH, Author of "The Dignity of Human Nature;" who died, August 15,

1775.

Beneath this stone concealed from mortal eyes,
"The Dignity of Human Nature" lies!
What is this dignity the sophists scan?
The noblest work of God, an honest man!

CAPT. THOMPSON.

Stop, wandering traveller! view this silent urn,
With no gay splendours nor with laurels crown'd;
Frail man is dust, to dust he must return,

For kings and beggars equal in the ground;
But yet with sighs let pity vent a tear,

And view the havock tyrant death has made; Here gnawing worms the clay built carcase tear, And waste Goliahs to an empty shade.

A PRIOR ON HIMSELF.

To me 'tis given to die, to thee 'tis given
To live; alas! one moment sets us even;
Mark how impartial is the will of Heav'n.

To the memory of JOHN COUTTS, ESQ. who died in Italy; and who had sustained with singular worth and ability the Provostship of Edinburgh, when it was an honor to bear that office.

Light lie the earth on gentle Coutts' breast,
O Italy! and let the stranger rest;
Who ne'er was by partial thought confin'd,
But liv'd the friend and host of human kind :
The people wept, the public bosom sigh'd,
And ruthless faction melted when he died.
He was a man who ne'er sought himself;
The citizen who ne'er regarded pelf.
In humble commerce of a mind as clear,
A heart as noble as the proudest Peer.

Fain would the muse! his grave with roses strow,
But, ah! her roses scarce begin to blow;
Yet let me warn the men of coarser clay,
Whose dull sensation gains a longer day;
That with no glancing word they wound his fame,
Nor meanly comment on the good man's name;
Who in the pleasing hour of social joy,
With fatal fondness counted life a toy;
A fault so dear, let human nature mourn,
And pity weep for ever o'er his urn.

ON A MISER.

Iron was his chest,

Iron was his door;

His hand was iron,

And his heart was more.

P. DODD.

ON A LADY.

Beneath this turf in sweet repose,
The friend of all—the fair one lies ;→
Yet hence let sorrow vent her woes,
Far hence let pity pour her sighs.

Tho' every hour thy life approv'd,
The muse! the strain of grief forbears;
Nor wishes tho' by all belov'd,

To call thee to a world of tears.

Best of thy sex, alas, farewell!

From this dark scene remov'd to shine;
Where purest shades of mortals dwell,
And virtue waits to welcome thine.

P. PINDAR.

On DR. WILLIAM CLARKE, the celebrated Antiquary, and MRS. ANN CLARKE, his wife.

Mild William Clarke, and Ann his wife,
Whom happy love had join'd in life;
United in an humble tomb,

Await the everlasting doom.

And bless the dead prepar'd as these,
To meet our Saviour's just decrees;
On earth thine hearts were known to feel,
Such charity and Christian zeal;

That should the world for last,

ages

In adverse fortune's bitter blast;

Few friends so warm will man find here,

And God no servants more sincere.

W. HAYLEY.