BLIND WILLIE'S EPITAPH.

Newcastle's now a dowly place—all things seem sore aclite, For here at last Blind Willie lies, an honest, harmless wight; Nor wealth nor power now look with scorn on this lone spot of one departed, For fashion's gay and glaring sun ne'er beam'd on one more happy hearted. He was the poorest of the poor, yet ne'er complain'd of want, He neither carried purse nor scrip, and yet was never scant; Storms thunder'd o'er his hatless head, yet he ne'er once their rage lamented, His was the lot too few have known—to live content, and die contented. The Bard who sung of Starkey's death, in tearful strains and true, And planted on Bold Archy's grave the wreath ta'en from his brow; His local reed in dust he lays—farewell!—there trill'd its final shiver,— It has been tun'd in Willie's praise, it now with him lies mute for ever.