Till Christ my Redeemer,
Who knows what is best;
To ease me of my pain,
Has taken me to my rest.
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In Fetteresso Churchyard.
Our life is short, and 'tis
Full of sorrow,
We're here to-day and straight
Are gone to-morrow.
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In Cowie Churchyard.
Here lies the man, for aught we know,
That lived and died without a foe,
Now mouldering here, beneath that clod—
"An honest man's the noblest work of God.
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In Cowie Churchyard.
This little spot is all our lot,
And all that kings acquire;
Our homes above, a gift of love—
Oh, reader! there aspire.
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On an Infant.
Here lies a spotless child—profane our smile,
For him—but for yourself let sorrow flow,
For had he lived he might have been as vile,
He might have been as profligate as you.
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In Selby Churchyard, Yorkshire.
Here lies the body of poor Frank Rowe,
Parish clerk and gravestone cutter;
And this is writ to let you know,
What Frank for others used to do
Is now for Frank done by another.