Quaint Epitaphs

Stranger pause and shed a tear,For Mary Jane lies buried here.Mingled in a most surprising mannerWith Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.Sacred to the memoryOf Miss Martha Grimm.She was so very spare within,She burst the outward shell of sinAnd hatched herself a cherubim.No doctor ever physicked me,Was never near my side.But when fever came I thought of the name,And that was enough—I died.This is to the memory of Ellen Hill,A woman who would always have her will.She snubbed her husband but she made good breadYet on the whole he's rather glad she's dead.She whipped her children and she drank her gin,Whipped virtue out and whipped the devil in.May all such women go to some great foldWhere they through all eternity may scold.

Sacred to the memory of William Skaradon who came to his death by being shot with a Colts revolver, one of the old kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Timothy EganHe heard the angels calling him,From the celestial shore.He flopped his wings and away he flewTo make one angel more.Here lies the body of Mary FordWe hope her soul is with the Lord.But if for tophet she's changed this life,Better be there than J. Ford's wife.A zealous locksmith died of late,And did not enter Heaven's gate.But stood without and would not knockBecause he meant to pick the lock.Ashes to ashes dust to dust,Here lies George Emery I trust.And when the trump blows louder and louderHe'll rise a box of Emery powder.There was a man who died of late,Whom angels did impatient waitWith outstretched arms and smiles of loveTo take him up to the realms above.While hovering 'round the lower skiesStill disputing for the prize,The devil slipped in like a weasilAnd down to Hell he took old Kezle.Here lies interred Priscilla BirdWho sang on earth till sixty two.Now up on high above the skyNo doubt she sings like sixty—too.Here lies Jane Smith,Wife of Thomas Smith, Marble Cutter

This monument was erected by her husband as a tribute to her memory and a specimen of his work.

Monuments of this same style are two hundred and fifty dollars.

A Cricket Player's EpitaphIn the pride of his manhood he heard the last call,Though first in the field where his feet pressed the sod.He hath gained his last wicket and thrown his last ball,To join in the choir 'round the throne of his God.Here lies the body of Susan LowderWho burst while drinking a Sedlit powder.Called from this world to her heavenly restShe should have waited till it effervesced.A man of letters it seems was he;The college made him L.L. D.The Order a P. G. W. C.Grim death has given him the G. B.And may his ashes R. I. P.After cremationAnd this is all that's left of theeThou fairest of earth's daughters.Only four pounds of ashes whiteOut of two hundred and three quarters.

James Payn, the novelist, speaks of this epitaph as "pathetic and expressive."

Here lies an old woman who always was tired,For she lived in a house where help was not hired;And her last words on earth were,Dear friends I am goingWhere no washing is done nor sweeping or sewing.Where all things will be exact to my wishes,For where there's no eating there's no washing of dishes.I'll be where loud anthems are constantly ringingBut having no voice I shall get clear of singing.She folded her hands with her latest endeavorAnd sighing she whispered sweet nothing forever.Alpha WhiteWeight 309 lbsOpen wide ye golden gatesThat lead to the heavenly shore.Our father suffered in passing throughAnd mother weighs much more.The winter snow congealed his formBut now we know our Uncle's warm.Our papa dear has gone to HeavenTo make arrangements for eleven.Epitaph on a dentistView this gravestone with gravityHe is filling his last cavity.Here lies Dodge, who dodged all goodAnd dodged a deal of evil.But after dodging all he couldHe could not dodge the devil.On the tombstone of a disagreeable old man"Deeply regretted by all who never knew him."Here lies Jim Shaw, attorney-at-law.When he died the devil cried,Give me your paw, Jim Shaw,Attorney at law.Here lies my wife a sad slatterned shrewIf I said I regretted her I should lie too.Here lies Ann Mann.She lived an old maidBut died an old Mann.Here lies Ned Hyde because he died.If it had been his sisterWe should not have missed her.But would rather it had been his fatherOr for the good of the nationThe whole generation.On a well-known pill doctorHis virtues and his pills are so well knownThat envy can't confine them under stone.Throughout his life he kneaded breadAnd deemed it quite a bore.But now six feet beneath earth's crustHe needeth bread no more.Listen, Mother, Aunt and meWere killed, here we be.We should not had time to missleHad they blown the engine whistle.Here lies the remains ofJohn Hall grocerThe world is not worth a figI have good raisins for saying so.Amanda Lowe

She loved me and my grandchildren reverenced her. She bathed my feet and kept my socks well darned.

A bird, a man, a loaded gun.No bird, dead man, thy will be done.

IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES

At St. Mary le Bone.

Queen Elizabeth(By Laureate Skelton.)Fame blow aloud, and to the world proclaim,There never ruled such a royal dame!The word of God was ever her delight,In it she meditated day and night.Spain's rod, Rome's ruin, Netherland's relief,Earth's joy, England's gem, world's wonder,Nature's chief.She was and is, what can there more be said,On earth the chief, in Heaven the second made.

In Harrow Churchyard.

(Ascribed to Lord Byron.)Beneath these green trees rising to the skies,The planter of them, Isaac Greentree lies!A time shall come when these green trees shall fall,And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.

Surrey, England.

The Lord was good I was lopping off woodAnd down fell from a tree.I met with a check that broke my neckAnd so God lopped off me.

Here lies John Higley whose father and mother were drowned in their passage from America. Had they both lived they would have been buried here.

Aberdeen, Scotland.

Here lies Martin Elmrod.Have mercy on my soul, good GodAs I would do were I Lord GodAnd you were Martin Elmrod.Here lies Thomas SmithAnd what is somewhat rareish,He was born bred and hangedIn this e'er parish.Here I lie at the chancel doorAnd I lie here because I am poor;For the farther in the more you pay,But here I lie as warm as they.

Pickering Churchyard.

Death comes to all, none can resist his dartAt his command the dearest friends must part.A mournful widow who this truth doth ownIn gratitude erects this humble stone.

Childwell, England.

Here lies the body ofJohn Smith.Buried in the cloistersIf he don't jump at the last trump,Call, Oysters!

England.

If Heaven be pleased when sinners cease to sin,If Hell be pleased when sinners enter in,If earth be pleased when ridded of a knave,Then all are pleased for Coleman's in his grave.

Samuel Gardner was blind in one eye and in a moment of confusion he stepped out of a receiving and discharging door in one of the warehouses into the ineffable glories of the celestial sphere.

To the memory of Ric Richards who by a gangrene first lost a toe, then a leg and lastly his life.

Ah cruel Death to make three meals of one,To taste and eat, and eat till all was gone.But know thou tyrant when the trump shall call,He'll find his feet, and stand where thou shalt fall.Poet & ShoemakerJoseph BlackettStranger behold interred togetherThe lords of learning and of leather.Poor Joe is gone but left his awlYou'll find his relics in a stall.His works were neat and often foundWell stitched and with morocco bound.Tread lightly where the bard is laid;He cannot mend the shoe he made.Yet he is happy in his holeWith verse immortal as his soul;But still to business he held fastAnd stuck to Pheabus to the last.Then who shall say so good a fellowWas only leather and prunello?For character he did not lack itAnd if he did't were shame to Blackett.Poor Betty Conway, she drank lemonade at a masquerade,So now she's dead and gone away.Robert Master, UndertakerHere lies Bob Master. Faith! t'was very hardTo take away an honest Robin's breath.Yes, surely Robin was full well preparedFor he was always looking out for death.

Taken from "The Lady's Magazine and Musical Repository," Jan., 1801.

Epitaph on a Bird

Here lieth, aged three months the body of Richard Acanthus a young person of unblemished character. He was taken in his callow infancy from the wing of a tender parent by the rough and pitiless hand of a two-legged animal without feathers.

Though born with the most aspiring disposition and unbending love of freedom he was closely confined in a grated prison and scarcely permitted to view those fields of which he had an undoubted charter.

Deeply sensible of this infringement of his natural rights he was often heard to petition for redress in the most plaintive notes of harmonious sorrow. At length his imprisoned soul burst the prison which his body could not and left a lifeless heap of beauteous feathers.

If suffering innocence can hope for retribution, deny not to the gentle shade of this unfortunate captive the humble though uncertain hope of animating some happier form; or trying his new fledged pinions in some happy elysium, beyond the reach of

Manthe tyrant of this lower world.On three children"Who plucked my choicest flowers?" the gardener cried"The Master did," a well known voice replied."'Tis well they are all his" the gardener said,And meekly bowed his reverential head.Beneath this stone in sound reposeLies William Rich of Lydeard Close.Eight wives he had yet none surviveAnd likewise children eight times five,From whom an issue vast did pourOf great grandchildren five times four.Rich born, rich bred, yet Fate adverseHis wealth and fortune did reverse.He lived and died immensely poorJuly the tenth aged ninety-four.

Ellington.

Here rest the remains of Alexander McKinstry.

A kind husband, tender parent, dutiful son, affectionate brother, faithful friend, generous master, and obliging neighbor. The house looks desolate and mourns, every door groans doleful as it turns. The pillars languish and each silent wall in grief laments the masters fall.

Joseph Horton, PedlarI lodged have in many a townAnd travelled many a year.Till age and death have brought me downTo my last lodging here.

Falkirk, Eng.

Here lies the body of Robert Gordon,Mouth almighty and teeth according.Stranger tread lightly on this wonder,If he opens his mouth you are gone to thunder.Here under this sod and under these treesIs buried the body of Solomon Pease.But here in this hole lies only his podHis soul is shelled out and gone up to God.Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake,Who died for peace and quietness sake.His wife was constantly scolding and scoffing,So he sought repose in a twelve dollar coffin.At rest beneath this slab of stone,Lies stingy Jimmy Wyett.He died one morning just at tenAnd saved a dinner by it.Here lies the body of Sarah SextonShe was a wife that never vexed one.But I can't say as much for the one at the next stone.I Dionysius underneath this tombSome sixty years of age have reached my doom.Ne'er having married, think it sad,And I wish my father never had.Underneath this marble hearseLies the subject of all verse;Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.Death ere thou hast slain anotherWise and fair and good as sheTime shall throw a dart at thee.

Kent.

Here lies two brothers by misfortune surrounded;One died of his wounds but the other was drownded.Epitaph of Susan BlakeWritten by Sir Thomas Moore at her urgent entreatyGood Susan Blake in royal stateArrived at last at Heaven's gate.

(After an absence of years and having fallen out with her he added these two lines.)

"But Peter met her with a clubAnd knocked her back to Beelzebub."Beneath this stone in hopes of Zion,Doeth lay the landlord of the Lion.His son keeps in the business stillResigned unto His heavenly will.John Palfryman who is buried hereWas aged four and twenty years.And near this place his Mother liesLikewise his father when he dies.

Salisbury.

Farewell vain world I've had enough of thee,And value not what thou canst say of me;Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,All's one to me, my head lies quiet here;What faults thou'st seen in me take care to shunAnd look at home, there's something to be doneLike a tender rose-tree was my spouse to me.Her offspring plucked too long deprived of life is she.Three went before, her life went with the sixth:I stay with the three our sorrows for to mix,Till Christ our only hope our joys doth fix.

Shetford Churchyard.

My grandfather was buried here,My cousin Jane and two uncles, dear.My father perished with inflammation of the eyes.My sister dropped dead in a nunnery.But the reason why I am here interred according to my thinking,Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,If therefore, good Christians, you wish to live longDon't drink to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.Beneath this monumental stoneLies half a ton of flesh and bone.ShakspeareGood friends for Jesus' sake forbearTo stir the dust enclosed here.Blest be the man who spares these stonesAnd cursed be he who moves my bones.

Nova Scotia.

Here lies old twenty five per cent.The more he had the more he lent.The more he had the more he craved,Great God, can his poor soul be saved?

Mt. Park Cemetery, Montreal.

Fred McKernan, Aged three yearsJohnie wants to know where do you now stayOr with whom do you now play,Or where do you roam?For the little iron cotYour poor mother boughtStill waits for you at home.

Folkstone.

Mrs David StuartFor twenty years and eight I lived a maiden's lifeAnd five and thirty years I was a married wife.And in that space of time eight children I did bear,Four sons, four daughters who I ever loved most dear;Three of that number as the Scriptures run,Preached up the way to Heaven—and Hell to shun.Maiden Lillard,

A young Scotch woman, who at the battle of Ancrum, 1545, distinguished herself by her extraordinary valor.

Fair Maiden Lillard lies under this sod.Little was her statue but great was her fame.Upon the English loons she laid many thumps,And when her legs were cut off she fought upon her stumps.Here lies a man who all his mortal lifeSpent mending clocks, but could not mend his wife.The larum of his bell was ne'er so shrillAs was her tongue, aye, clacking like a mill.But now he's gone—oh whither none can tellBut hope beyond the sound of Matty's bell.

Paris.

Adah Isaac Menkin"Thou knowest."Lord Byron's epitaph on his Newfoundland dog at Newstead"To mark a friend's remainsThese stones arise.I never knew but oneAnd here he lies."

Manchester, England.

Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,His age was five times ten.He ne'er did good nor ever wouldHad he lived as long again.

Beneath these stones repose the bones of Theodosious Grimm.

He took his beer from year to yearAnd then the bier took him.(On a butcher whose name was Lamb.)Beneath this stone lies Lamb asleep,Who died a Lamb who lived a sheep.Many a lamb and sheep he slaughteredBut cruel Death the scene has altered.Rose CliffordThis tomb doth here enclose the world's most beauteous RoseHere lies John Quebeccaprecentor to My Lord the King

When he is admitted to the choir of angels whose society he will embellish and where he will distinguish himself by his powers of song—God shall say to the angels—

Cease ye calves! and let me hearJohn Quebecca, the precentor ofMy Lord the King.

St. Botolph's.

A traveller lies here at restWho life's rough ocean tossed on.His many virtues all expressedThus simply—"I'm from Boston."

St. Clair, Canada.

On a brickmakerKeep death and judgment always in your eyeOr else the devil off with you will flyAnd in his kiln with burning brimstone ever fry.If you neglect the narrow road to seekChrist will respect you like a half burned brick.Patrick Bay, InnholderKilled by an ignorant Physician.Not Fate or Death but doctor RoweAdvanced to give the deadly blowThat smote me to the shades below.Had Death alone approached too nigh,Had Fate or Nature bid me die,I must have borne it patiently.But to be robbed of life and easeBy such infernal quacks as theseAnd pay, beside their modest fees!Now folks that travel by this way,Pointing toward my tomb shall say,"There lies the bones of Patrick Bay—Who ne'er a cheerful glass denied,All force of arms, and grog defied,Yet by a vile Jack Pudding died."John ScottBrewerPoor John Scott is buried hereTho' once he was both hale and stout.Death stretched him on his bitter bier,In another world he hops about.Received of Philip Hardinghis borrowed earth July 4th 1673The Duke of Norfolk, a great whist player(By Sheridan.)Here lies England's premier baron,Patiently awaiting the last trump.Here lies a Cardinal who wroughtBoth good and evil in his time.The good he did was good for naughtNot so the evil—that was prime.

Elihu Yale, the founder of Yale College at New Haven, lies buried in Wrenham, Wales. His monument bears this inscription:

Born in America, in Europe bredIn Africa traveled in Asia wed,Where long he lived and thrivedAnd at London died.Much good, some ill he did so hope all's evenAnd his soul through mercy is gone to Heaven.You that survive and read this tale take care,For this most certain event to prepare;Where blest in peace the actions of the justSmell sweet and blossom in the silent dust.