He that lies here was mortal olde, All but a hundred, if truth be told. His pinpricke eyes, his hairless pate, Crutch in hand, his shambling gaite -- All spake of Time: and Time's slow stroke, That fells at length the stoutest Oke. Of yeares so many now he is gone There's nought to tell except this stone. His name was Parr: decease did he In Seventeen Hundred Sixty Three. |