Epitaph on a Candle. Punch

A WICKED one lies buried here,
Who died in a DECLINE;
He never rose in rank, I fear,
Though he was born to SHINE.

He once was FAT, but now, indeed,
He’s thin as any griever;
He died—the Doctors all agreed,
Of a most BURNING fever.

One thing of him is said with truth,
With which I’m much amused;
It is—that when he stood, forsooth,
A STICK he always used.

Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made,
But this was not enough,
For finding it a poorish trade,
He also dealt in SNUFF.

If e’er you said “GO OUT, I pray,”
He much ill nature show’d;
On such occasions he would say,
“Vy, if I do, I’M BLOW’D”

In this his friends do all agree,
Although you’ll think I’m joking,
When GOING OUT ’tis said that he
Was very fond of SMOKING.

Since all religion he despised,
Let these few words suffice,
Before he ever was baptized
They DIPP’D him once or twice.