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Updated: May 21, 2025
"To diversify this dusky letter, I will write an Epitaph, which I composed in my sleep for myself while dreaming that I was dying. To the best of my recollection I have not altered a word: "'Here sleeps at length poor Col. and without screaming, Who died as he had always lived, a dreaming; Shot dead, while sleeping, by the gout within, Alone, and all unknown, at E'nbro' in an Inn'"
'Here sleeps at length poor Col. and without screaming Who died, as he had always lived, a dreaming: Shot dead, while sleeping, by the gout within, Alone, and all unknown, at E'nbro' in an Inn. It was Tuesday night last, at the 'Black Bull, Edinburgh. Yours, dear Wedgewood, gratefully, and Most affectionately, S. T. Coleridge. Thomas Wedgewood, Esq."
"Homer, the graund Greek poet," she answered cheerily; "an' I'm to have anither o' Burns, as tall as Homer, when my daughter comes hame frae E'nbro'." If the shade of Homer keeps account of his earthly triumphs, I think he is proud of his place in that humble Scotchwoman's gillyflower garden, with his head under the drooping petals of granny's white mutches.
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