AN EPIGRAM.

T HRO' long disease, old Tom gave up the ghost,
Which fled immedite to the Stygian coast,
His son, S ALATHIEL , now by happy fate,
Falls headlong heir into a good estate.
No sooner was poor Tom laid in his grave,
Then straight the parson comes his dues to crave!
I want the tribute, quoth the subtle sire,
A Guinea's all, at present, I require:
A Guinea! quoth Salathiel — what the duce,
Sure this is some new custom — damn the use,
We pay for coming into life — but I
Ne'er thought that we should pay when we do die.
Hush, quoth the reverend father in a pet,
I've something else, good friend to tell you yet,
The mortuary Guinea's all I crave,
You need not thus begin to rant and rave,
Besides it is a custom, quoth the priest,
When people die, they still pay this, at least.
O! — now I smell you, quoth the country boor,
You need not hint a sentence of it more,
'Tis Purgatory Guinea , I suppose!
And faith a fine excuse you have, God knows;
But first perform your office, I desire,
And pray my father's spirit thro' the fire,
'Tis mete you should three days most fervent pray,
To help my father's tardy ghost away,
Or soon I can inform you, sacred sir,
You shall not have one single farthing here.
The priest was humm'd, and softly slunk away,
Nor durst another word about the guinea say!