In our Churchyard there grows a spreading Yew,
Whose dark green Leaves distil a baneful Dew:
Be those sad Branches o'er my Grave reclin'd,
And let these Words be graven on the Rind:
"Mark, gentle Reader, — Underneath this Tree,
"There sleeps a Maid, old  Daughter she;
"Thou too, perhaps, ere many Weeks be o'er,
"Like  shalt be seen no more.