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Updated: July 4, 2025
Peace to thy mould'ring ashes, till revive Bright memories of thee in deathless song! True to the dead, Time shall relenting give The meed of fame deserved delayed too long, And in immortal verse the Bard again shall live!" Alas! this frightful vice of drinking prevails throughout the colony to an alarming extent.
Ye awful wrecks of ancient times! Proud monuments of ages past Now mould'ring in decay. But mingled with every crowding, every classical idea, comes to one's recollection an old picture painted by R. Wilson about thirty years ago, which I am now sure must have been a very excellent representation.
This day thou'll chirp and mourn the morrow Wi' anxious breast; The plough has turned the mould'ring furrow Deep o'er thy nest! "Just I' the middle o' the hill Thy nest was placed wi' curious skill; There I espied thy little bill Beneath the shade. In that sweet bower, secure frae ill, Thine eggs were laid.
A good specimen of the unconsciously humorous epitaph is on a stone in the churchyard at Maddington, a small village in the Wiltshire Downs, dated 1843: These few lines have been procured To tell the pains which he endured, He was crushed to death by the fall Of an old mould'ring, tottering wall.
It comes; and roaring woods obedient wave: Their home well pleased the joint adventurers leave; The trudging sow leads forth her numerous young, Playful, and white, and clean, the briars among, Till briars and thorns increasing fence them round, Where last year's mould'ring leaves bestrew the ground, And o'er their heads, loud lashed by furious squalls, Bright from their cups the rattling treasure falls; Hot thirsty food; whence doubly sweet and cool The welcome margin of some rush-grown pool, The wild duck's lonely haunt, whose jealous eye Guards every point; who sits prepared to fly, On the calm bosom of her little lake, Too closely screened for ruffian winds to shake; And as the bold intruders press around, At once she starts and rises with a bound; With bristles raised the sudden noise they hear, And ludicrously wild and winged with fear, The herd decamp with more than swinish speed, And snorting dash through sedge and rush and reed; Through tangled thickets headlong on they go, Then stop and listen for their fancied foe; The hindmost still the growing panic spreads, Repeated fright the first alarm succeeds, Till Folly's wages, wounds and thorns, they reap; Yet glorying in their fortunate escape, Their groundless terrors by degrees soon cease, And Night's dark reign restores their peace.
This day thou'll chirp and mourn the morrow Wi' anxious breast; The plough has turned the mould'ring furrow Deep o'er thy nest! "Just I' the middle o' the hill Thy nest was placed wi' curious skill; There I espied thy little bill Beneath the shade. In that sweet bower, secure frae ill, Thine eggs were laid.
Elfride's emotions were sudden as his in kindling, but the least of woman's lesser infirmities love of admiration caused an inflammable disposition on his part, so exactly similar to her own, to appear as meritorious in him as modesty made her own seem culpable in her. 'Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap.
Like some sweet, plaintive melody Of ages long gone by; It speaks a tale of other years, Of hopes that bloomed to die Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mould'ring lie. "Mournfully, O, mournfully, This midnight wind doth moan!
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