Chapter III: Part 3

Near this place are deposited the remains of Gedge, Printer, who
established the first newspaper that has been published in this town.
Like a worn out type, he is returned to the _founder_, in the hope of
being recast in a better and more perfect mould.

HADLEIGH.

The charnel mounted on this w )
Sits to be seen in funer )
A matron plain, domestic )
In housewifery a princip )
In care and pains continu )
Not slow, nor gay, nor prodig ) all.
Yet neighbourly and hospitab )
Her children seven yet living )
Her 67th year hence did c )
To rest her body natur )
In hope to rise spiritu )

* * * * *

On little Stephen, a noted fiddler.

Stephen and Time
Are now both even;
Stephen beat Time,
Now Time beats Stephen.

* * * * *

Life is only pain below,
When Christ appears, then up we go.

IPSWICH.

John Warner.

I Warner once was to myself,
Now Warning am to thee,
Both living, dying, dead I was,
See then thou warned be.

* * * * *

On ---- More, of Norwich.

More had I once, More would I have;
More is not to be had.
The first I . . . the next is vaine;
The third is too too bad.
If I had us'd with more regard
The More that I did give,
I might have made More use and fruit
Of More while he did live.

THURLOW.

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.

LAVENHAM.

Quod fuit esse quod est, quod non fuit esse quod esse.
Esse quod est non esse, quod est non erit esse.

Translation.

What John Giles has been,
Is what he is (a batchelor);
What he has not been,
Is what he is (a corpse);
To be what he is
Is not to be (a living creature).
He will not have to be
What he is not (dust).

BURY.

Here lies Jane Kitchen, who, when her glass was spent,
Kickt up her heels, and away she went.

Surrey.

BERMONDSEY.

William Palin.

Silent grave, to thee I trust
This precious pearl of worthy dust.
Keep it safe, O sacred tomb!
Until a wife shall ask for room.

WALWORTH.

Here lies the wife of Roger Martin,
She was a good wife to Roger--that's sartain.

OCKHAM.

The Lord saw good, I was topping off wood,
And down fell from the tree;
I met with a check, and I broke my blessed neck,
And so Death topped off me.

WIMBLEDON.

Sweet Saviour, Jesus, give me wings
Of Peace and perfect Love,
As I may move from Earthly Things,
To rest with thee above.

For sins and Sorrows overflow
All earthly things so High,
That I can't find no rest below,
Till up to thee I fly.

THAMES DITTON.

In memory of Mr. Wm Machell, who departed this life Oct. 10, 1808.
Aged 88 years.

Whilst in this world I remained, my life was
A pleasure and health and gain. But now
God thought best to take me to his everlasting rest,
And I thank God for it.

STREATHAM.

On the South Wall of this Church is the following remarkable
Inscription:--Elizabeth, wife of Major-Genl Hamilton, who was married
47 years, and never did ONE thing to disoblige her Husband.

BATTERSEA.

Sir Edward Court.

"Alone, unarm'd, a tiger he oppress'd,
And crush'd to death the monster of a beast:
Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrew
Singly on foot, some wounded, some he slew,
Disperst the rest; what more could Sampson do?"

NOTE.--This is only part of the inscription, which relates that, being attacked in the woods by a tiger, he placed himself on the side of a pond, and when the tiger flew at him, he caught him in his arms, fell back with him into the water, got upon him, and kept him down till he had drowned him.

GUILDFORD.

Reader, pass on, ne'er waste your time
On bad biography and bitter rhyme;
For what I am, this cumb'rous clay insures,
And what I was, is no affair of yours.

BEDDINGTON.

Thomas Greenhill.

Under thy feet interr'd is here
A native born in Oxfordshire;
First life and learning Oxford gave,
Surry him his death and grave;
He once a Hill was fresh and Greene,
Now withered is not to be seene;
Earth in earth shovell'd up is shut,
A Hill into a Hole is put;
But darksome earth by Power Divine,
Bright at last as the sun may shine.

RICHMOND.

On Captain John Dunch, who died in 1697, aged 67.

Though Boreas' blasts and Neptune's waves
Have tossed me to and fro,
In spight of both, by God's decree,
I anchor here below,
Where I do now at anchor ride,
With many of our fleet,
Yet once again I must set sail,
Our admiral, Christ, to meet.

CAMBERWELL.

Richard Wade, died Oct. 21, 1810, aged 53.
Giles Wade, died Dec. 8, 1810, aged 53.

Near together they came,
Near together they went,
Near together they are.

Sussex.

BARCOMB.

All you that come my grave to see
Prepare yourself to Follow me,
Take care Young men repent in time
For I was taken in my Prime.

As I was going through a Barn
I little thought of any harm,
A piece of Timber on me fell,
And penetrated through my Skull.

My Eyes were Blinded I could not see,
My Parents they did weep for Me,
My Time was come I was Forced to go,
And bid the World and Them Adieu.

Just six and thirty hours I lay
In great Pain and Agony,
Till the Archangel bid me come,
And called my Soul to its last Home.

CHICHESTER.

A certain noble lord of no very moral life, dying, had inscribed upon his tomb, the phrase, "Ultima Domus,"--Collins, the poet, is said to have pencill'd those lines under the words:--

Did he who wrote upon this wall,
Believe or disbelieve St. Paul?
Who says where-er it is or stands,
There is another house not made with hands,
Or do we gather from these words,
That house is not a house of lords?

* * * * *

Here lies an old soldier whom all must applaud,
Who fought many battles at home and abroad;
But the hottest engagement he ever was in,
Was the conquest of self in the battle of sin.

BEXHILL.

On a Young Lady.

I lay me down to rest me,
And pray to God to bless me,
And if I sleep and never wake,
I pray to God my soul to take
This night for Evermore--Amen.

WEST GRINSTEAD.

Vast Strong was I, but yet did dye,
And in my Grave asleep I Lye,
My Grave is Stoned all round about,
But I hope the Lord will find me out.

MAYFIELD.

Oh reader! if that thou can'st read
Look down upon this stone;
Do all we can, Death is a man,
What never spareth none.

STORRINGTON.

Here lies the body of Edward Hide,
We laid him here because he died,
We had rather
It been his father,
If it had been his sister
We should not have missed her,
But since 'tis honest Ned,
No more shall be said.

* * * * *

Here lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door nail, God be thanked.

LAVANT.

Mr. Samford, Blacksmith.

My Sledge and hammer lie reclined,
My Bellows, too, have lost their wind;
My fire's extinct, my forge decayed,
And in the dust my vice is laid;
My coal is spent, my iron gone,
My nails are drove, my work is done.

EAST GRINSTEAD.

I was as grass that did grow up,
And wither'd before it grew,
As Snails do waste within their Shells,
So the number of my days were few.

RODMELL.

Elizabeth Ellis (1757).

If love and virtue doth conduce to grace the fair,
These was once possessed by her who lieth here;
But alas! by fate the object of her love was drowned.
By death surprized in trying to save a hound.
Which such effect had on her tender mind
It brought her into a deep decline.
With him her transitory bliss is fled,
And she a cold companion of the dead.
Since this catastrophe cannot fail to show
How uncertain all earthly joys are here below.

BRIGHTON.

His fate was hard, but God's decree
Was, drown'd he should lie--in the sea.

Warwickshire.

BIRMINGHAM.

By a Lady on her Husband.

Oh! cruel death, how could you be so unkind,
To take _him_ before, and leave me behind.
You should have taken both of us--if either,
Which would have been more pleasant to the _survivor_.

* * * * *

My time is out, my glass is run,
I never more shan't see the sun;
To live for ever, no man don't,
The Lord does not think fitting on't.

COVENTRY.

Upon a rich Merchant's Wife.

She was What was,
But words are Wanting to say what a One.
What a Wife should be,
She was that.

STRATFORD ON AVON.

On Shakspeare's Monument are engraved the following distich and lines:--

"Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem,
Terra tegit, populus moeret, Olympus habet."

"Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast?
Read, if thou canst, what envious death hath placed
Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom
Quick nature died; whose name doth deck the tomb
Far more than cost, since all that he hath writ
Leaves living art but page unto his wit."

Westmoreland.

RAVENSTONEDALE.

Here lies a Wife,
Mary Metcalf,
Where I was born, or when,
It matters not,--
To whom related, or
By whom begot.

* * * * *

John Robinson Hunter,
Aged 30.

He lived; and died
Unplaced, unpensioned--
No man's heir
Or slave.

"Can the inhabitants of Ravenstonedale look at either of these
monuments without blushing? Can the freeholders of that parish look
at the latter, and not consider it prophetically as the voice of one
speaking from the dead?"

Wiltshire.

SALISBURY.

"Innocence embellishes, divinely compleat,
The pre-existing co-essence, now sublimely great.
He can surpassingly immortalize thy theme,
And perforate thy soul, celestial supreme.
When gracious refulgence bids the grave resign
The Creator's nursing protection be thine.
So shall each perspiring aether joyfully arise,
Transcendantly good, supereminently wise."

* * * * *

In the morning I was well,
In the afternoon from a cart I fell,
An accident somewhat severe,
In less than a fortnight brought me here.

ANSTEY.

Mary Best lies buried hear,
Her age it was just ninety year;
Twenty-eight she liv'd a single life,
And only four years was a wife;
She liv'd a widow fifty-eight,
And died January 11, eighty-eight.

CALNE.

God worketh wonders now and then,
Here lies a miller, and an honest man.

Worcestershire.

WORCESTER.

Mr. John Mole.

Beneath this cold stone lies a son of the earth;
His story is short, though we date from his birth;
His mind was as gross as his body was big;
He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig.
No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state,
Did e'er for a moment encumber John's pate.
He sat or he walked, but his walk was but creeping,
And he rose from his bed--when quite tir'd of sleeping.
Without foe, without friend, unnotic'd he died;
Not a single soul laughed, not a single soul cried.
Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov'd earth.
So the sexton has cover'd his body with turf.

* * * * *

Mammy and I together lived
Just two years and a half;
She went first, I followed next,
The cow before the calf.

BROMESGROVE.

In memory of Thomas Maningly.

Beneath this stone lies the remains,
Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain.
A currier with his knife did the deed,
And left me in the street to bleed;
But when archangel's trump shall sound,
And souls to bodies join, that murderer
I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.

GREAT MALVERN.

Pain was my portion, physic was my food,
Grones my devotion--drugs done me no good.
Christ was my physician--he knowed what was best,
He took me to Himself, and put me here at rest.

BELBROUGTON

Richard Philpots.

To tell a merry or a wonderous tale
Over a chearful glass of nappy Ale,
In harmless mirth was his supreme delight,
To please his Guests or Friends by day or night;
But no fine tale, how well soever told,
Could make the tyrant Death his stroak withold;
That fatal Stroak has Laid him here in Dust,
To rise again once more with Joy we trust.

On the upper portion of this Christian monument are carved, in full relief, a punch-bowl, a flagon, and a bottle, emblems of the deceased's faith, and of those pots which Mr. Philpots delighted to fill.

* * * * *

"Near to this is a fine tombstone to the memory of Paradise Buckler
(who died in 1815), the daughter of a gipsy king. The pomp that
attended her funeral is well remembered by many of the inhabitants.
I have heard one of my relatives say that the gipsies borrowed from
her a dozen of the finest damask napkins (for the coffin
handles)--none but those of the very best quality being accepted for
the purpose--and that they were duly returned, beautifully 'got up'
and scented. The king and his family were encamped in a lane near to
my relative's house, and his daughter (a young girl of fifteen) died
in the camp.

"C. BEDE."

Yorkshire.

LEEDS.

Under this stone do lie six children small,
Of John Wittington of the North Hall.

* * * * *

On a Learned Alderman.

Here lies William Curtis, late our Lord Mayor,
Who has left _this here_ world, and is gone to _that there_.

SELBY.

Here lies the body of poor _Frank Row_,
Parish clerk, and grave-stone cutter;
And this is writ to let you know,
What _Frank_ for others us'd to do,
Is now for _Frank_ done by another.

BARWICK-IN-ELMET.

On a Marine Officer.

Here lies, retired from busy scenes,
A first lieutenant of marines,
Who lately lived in gay content
On board the brave ship _Diligent_.
Now stripped of all his warlike show,
And laid in box of elm below,
Confined in earth in narrow borders,
He rises not till further orders.

BIRSTALL.

This is to the memory of old Amos,
Who was, when alive for hunting famous,
But now his chases are all o'er,
And here he's earthed--of years fourscore.
Upon this stone he's often sat,
And tried to read his epitaph;
And thou who dost so at this moment,
Shalt, ere long, somewhere lie dormant.

ROTHERHAM.

We joined was in mutual love,
And so we did remain,
Till parted was by God above,
In hopes to meet again.

LEEDS.

Hic jacet sure the fattest man,
That Yorkshire stingo made;
He was a lover--of his can,
A clothier by his trade.
His waist did measure three yards round,
He weighed almost three hundred pounds;
His flesh did weigh full twenty stone--
His flesh, I say, he had no bone,
At least 'tis said that he had none.

NORTH ALLERTON.

Hic jacet Walter Gun,
Some time Landlord of the Sun;
Sic transit gloria mundi.
He drank hard upon Friday,
That being a high day,
Then took to his bed and died upon Sunday.

WADDINGTON.

Wm. Rd. Phelp, a Boatswain of H.M.S. Invincible.

When I was like you,
For years not a few,
On the ocean I toil'd,
On the line I have broil'd,
In Greenland I've shiver'd,
Now from hardships deliver'd;
Capsized by old Death,
I surrendered my breath,
And now I lay snug,
As a bug in a rug.

LEEDS.

Here lies my wife,
Here lies she;
Hallelujah,
Hallelujee.

RICHMOND.

Here lies the body of William Wix,
One Thousand, Seven Hundred & Sixty Six.

Wales.

Carmarthenshire.

CARMARTHEN.

A hopeful youth, and well beloved,
Has to the earth his body bequeathed.

Carnarvonshire.

ABERCONWAY.

Here lieth the body of Nicholas Hooker, of Conway, Gent.
Who was the one and fortieth child of William Hooker, Esq.by
Alice his wife, and the father of twenty-seven children.
He died on the 20th day of March, 1637.

CARNARVON.

Dust from dust at first was taken,--
Dust by dust is now forsaken;
Dust in dust shall still remain,
Till dust from dust shall rise again.

Denbighshire.

WREXHAM.

Here lies a Church-warden,
A choice flower in that garden,
Joseph Critchley by name,
Who lived in good fame
Being gone to rest,
Without doubt he is blest.

Montgomeryshire.

MONTGOMERY.

All you that come our grave to see
A moment pause and think,
How we are in eternity
And you are on the brink.

BERRIEW.

Farewell, my dear and loving wife,
Partner of the cares of life,
And you my children now adieu,
Since I no more can come to you.

GUILDSFIELD.

Beneath this yew tree
Buried would he be,
Because his father, he,
Planted this yew tree.

Pembrokeshire.

LLANVAIR.

Who Ever hear on Sonday,
Will practis playing at Ball,
It may be be Fore Munday
The devil Will Have you All.

Radnorshire.

RADNOR.

In health and strength unthinking of my fate,
Death like a thief knock'd at my Bolted gate,
I hasted down to know the reason why
That noise was made, Death Quickly did Reply,
For thee I Call, thy Soul is now Requir'd,
I trembling gaz'd and Instantly Expir'd.

Scotland.

Ayrshire.

MUIRKIRK.

Inscription.

Here lies John Smith
who was shot by Col.
Buchan and the laird
of Lee. Feb. 1685.
For his adherence to the
word of God and Scot
land's covenanted w-
ork of reformation,
Rev. 12, ii. Erected in the
year 1731.

* * * * *

Epitaph.

When proud apostates
did abjure Scotland's
reformation pure And
fill'd this land with perj
ury and all sorts of In-
iquity Such as would not
with them comply They pe
rsecute with hue and
cry. I in the flight
was overtane And fo
r the truth by them
was slain.

Caithnessshire.

HALKIRK.

Sir Jno. Graham.

Here lies Sir John the Grame both right and wise,
One of the chiefs rescued Scotland thrice,
An better knight ne're to the world was lent
Than was good Grame of truth and hardiment.

Dumfriesshire.

HODDAM.

Here lyes a man, who all his mortal life
Past mending clocks but could not mend hys wyfe.
The 'larum of his bell was ne'er sae shrill
As was her tongue, aye clacking like a mill.
But now he's gane--oh, whither? nane can tell--
I hope beyond the sound o' Mally's bell.

* * * * *

Here lies John Speir
Dumfreise--Pipier,
Young John?--Fy Fy.
Old John?--Ay Ay.

Edinburghshire.

EDINBURGH.

Here lie I, Martin Eldinbrode,
Ha' mercy on my soul, Loord Gode;
As I would do, were I Lord Gode,
And thou wert Martin Eldinbrode.

* * * * *

John McPherson
Was a wonderful person,
He was six feet two
Without his shoe,
And he was slew
At Waterloo.

* * * * *

Here lies Donald and his wife
Janet Mac Fee,
Aged Forty hee,
Aged thirty shee.

* * * * *

Here lieth the limbs of a lang devil,
Wha! in his time has done much evil,
And oft the ale wybes he opprest,
And blest be God he's gone to rest.

* * * * *

John Carnagie lies here,
Descended of Adam and Eve,
If any can gang higher
He willingly gives him leave.

This epitaph is undoubtedly that from which Prior borrowed those beautiful and well-known lines he once intended for his own monument.

* * * * *

Wha lies here?
I Johnny Dow.
Hoo! Johnny, is that you?
Ay, man, but a'm dead now.

Fifeshire.

TORRYBURN.

On a drunken Cobbler.

Enclosed within this narrow stall
Lies one who was a friend to _awl_.
He saved bad _soles_ from getting worse,
But damned his own without remorse.
And tho' a drunken life he passed,
Yet saved his _soul_ by _mending at the last_.

Forfarshire.

CUPAR.

William Rymour.

Through Christ, T'me not inferiour
To William the Conqueror.--Rom. 8, 37. (! !)

DUNDEE.

Walter Coupar, Tailor.

Kynd commorads! here Coupar's corpse is laid,
Walter by name, and Tayleour to his trade,
Both kind and true, and stout and honest-hearted,
Condole with me that he so soon departed.
For, Tavou, he never weyl'd and sheer
Had better parts, nor he that's bur'yd here.

DUNDEE.

Three Scottish worthies were once appointed to compose an Epitaph on a departed Provost: subjoined are the productions of two of them, which were supposed to have been the means of killing the third candidate in a fit of laughter.

Here lies the Provost of Dundee,
Here lies him, here lies he.
Hi-diddle-dum, Hi-diddle-dee,
A, B, C, D, E, F, G.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of John Watson,
Read this not with your hats on,
For why--he was Provost of Dundee,
Hallelujah, Hallelujee.

MONTROSE.

Here lyes the bodeys of George Young and Isbel Guthrie, and all their
posterity for fifty years backwards.
November 1757.

Haddingtonshire.

PRESTONPANS.

William Matthison here lies,
Whose age was forty-one,
February 17, he dies,
Went Isbel Mitchell from,
Who was his married wife
The fourth part of his life.
The soul it cannot die,
Though the body be turned to clay,
Yet meet again they must
At the last day.
Trumpet shall sound, archangels cry,
"Come forth Isbel Mitchell and meet Will
Matthison in the sky."

HADDINGTON.

If modesty commend a wife
And Providence a mother,
Grave chastity a widow's life,
We'll not find such another
In Haddington as Mareon Gray,
Who here doth lie till the Domesday.

* * * * *

Hout, Atropos, heard-hearted hag,
To cut the sheugh o' Jamie Craig!
For had he lived a wheen mae years
He'd been o'er teugh for thy auld shears.
But now he's gane, sae maun we a',
Wha wres'les Death's aye shure to fa';
Sae let us pray that we at last
May wun frae Death a canny cast.

ABERLADY.

"Here lies John Smith,
Whom Death slew, for all his pith
The starkest man in Aberlady,
God prepare and make us ready.

Lanarkshire.

GLASGOW.

Our life's a flying shadow, God's the pole,
The index pointing at him is our soul;
Death's the horizon, when our sun is set,
Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

* * * * *

Here lies Mass Andrew Gray,
Of whom ne muckle good can I say:
He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit,
He was ne Papist, for he had ne merit.
He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine,
He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine.
Full forty years he preach'd and le'ed,
For which God doomed him when he de'ed.

Perthshire.

DUNKELD.

Margery Scott.

Stop, passenger, until my life you read,
The living may get knowledge from the dead:
Five times five years I lived a virgin life,
Five times five years I was a virtuous wife,
Five times five years a widow, grave and chaste,
Tired of the elements, I am now at rest;
Betwixt my cradle and my grave were seen
Eight mighty kings of Scotland and a Queen;
Thrice did I see old Pulacy pulled down,
And thrice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.

Stirlingshire.

STIRLING.

John Adamson's here kept within,
Death's prisoner for Adam's sin,
But rests in hope that he shall be
Let, by the second Adam, free.

Wigtonshire.

WIGTON.

Here lies John Taggart, of honest fame,
Of stature low, and a leg lame;
Content he was with portion small,
Kept a shop in Wigtown, and that's all.

Miscellaneous.

A servant maid was sent by her mistress to Ben Jonson for an epitaph on her departed husband. She could only afford to pay half-a-guinea, which Ben refused, saying he never wrote one for less than double that sum; but recollecting he was going to dine that day at a tavern, he ran down stairs and called her back. "What was your master's name?"--"Jonathan Fiddle, sir." "When did he die?"--"June the 22nd, sir." Ben took a small piece of paper, and wrote with his pencil, while standing on the stairs, the following:--

On the twenty-second of June,
Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.

* * * * *

On Shadrach Johnson,

Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty-
four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.
Shadrach lies here; who made both sexes happy,
The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.

* * * * *

On a Cricketer.

I _bowled_, I _struck_, I _caught_, I _stopt_,
Sure life's a game of cricket;
I _block'd_ with care, with caution popp'd,
Yet Death has hit my _wicket_.

* * * * *

On a Puritanical Locksmith.

A zealous locksmith died of late,
And did arrive at heaven gate;
He stood without and would not knock,
Because he meant to pick the lock.

* * * * *

On John Cole,
Who died suddenly, while at dinner.

Here lies Johnny Cole,
Who died, on my soul,
After eating a plentiful dinner.
While chewing his crust,
He was turned into dust,
With his crimes undigested--poor sinner!

* * * * *

On Mr. Death, the Actor.

Death levels all, both high and low,
Without regard to stations;
Yet why complain,
If we are slain?
For here lies one, at least, to show,
He kills his own relations.

* * * * *

"The following reference to one departed Mr. Strange, of the legal profession, is rather complimentary; and I have only to hope that the fact of the case is as stated, and that the writer was not led away by the obvious opportunity of making a point, to exaggerate the virtues of the deceased. It looks a little suspicious." (_Dickens_).

"Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that is Strange."

* * * * *

"Dr. I. Letsome wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone; but it is not likely that he allowed his friends, or at least his patients, to read it until he was under the turf, or out of practice:"--

"When people's ill, they comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats 'em;
Sometimes they live, sometimes they die;
What's that to I? I. Letsome." (_lets 'em_.)

* * * * *

On Mr. Foot.

Here lies one Foot, whose death may thousands save;
For Death himself has now _one Foot_ i' th' grave.

* * * * *

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in
Horse-racing.

John ran so long, and ran so fast,
No wonder he ran out at last;
He ran in debt, and then to pay,
He distanced all--and ran away.

* * * * *

On a Miser.

They call'd thee rich, I deem'd thee poor,
Since, if thou dar'dst not use thy store,
But sav'd it only for thy heirs,
The treasure was not thine--but theirs.

* * * * *

Lines written by Robert of Gloucester upon King Henry the First, who died through over-eating of his favourite fish:--

"And when he com hom he willede of an lampreye to ete,
Ac hys leeches hym oerbede, vor yt was feble mete,
Ac he wolde it noyt beleve, vor he lovede yt well ynow,
And ete as in better cas, vor thulke lampreye hym slow,
Vor anon rygt thereafter into anguysse he drow,
And died vor thys lampreye, thane hys owe wow."

* * * * *

On John Sydney,
Who died full of the Small Pox.

In this sacred urn there lies,
Till the last trump make it rise,
A light that's wanting in the skies.
A corpse inveloped with stars,
Who, though a stranger to the wars,
Was mark'd with many hundred scars.

Death, at once, spent all his store
Of darts, which this fair body bore,
Though fewer had kill'd many more.
For him our own salt tears we quaff,
Whose virtues shall preserve him safe,
Beyond the power of epitaph.

* * * * *

Upon Two Religious Disputants,
Who are interred within a few paces of each other.

Suspended here a contest see,
Of two whose creeds could ne'er agree;
For whether they would preach or pray,
They'd do it in a different way;
And they wou'd fain our fate deny'd,
In quite a different manner dy'd!
Yet, think not that their rancour's o'er;
No! for 'tis 10 to 1, and more,
Tho' quiet now as either lies,
But they've a wrangle when they rise.

* * * * *

On a disorderly fellow, named Chest.

Here lies one Chest within another.
That chest was good
Which was made of wood,
But who'll say so of t'other?

* * * * *

On John Death.

Here lies John Death, the very same
That went away with a cousin of his name.

* * * * *

Lord Coningsby. By Pope.

Here lies Lord Coningsby--be civil;
The rest God knows--perhaps the Devil.

* * * * *

On General Tulley.

Here lies General Tulley,
Aged 105 years fully;
Nine of his wives beside him doth lie,
And the tenth must lie here when she doth die.

* * * * *

A Bishop's Epitaph.

In this house, which I have borrowed from my brethren worms, lie I,
Samuel, by divine permission late Bishop of this Island, in hope of
the resurrection to Eternal life. Reader, stop! view the Lord
Bishop's palace, and smile.

* * * * *

On a Welchman,
Killed by a Fall from his Horse.

Here lies interr'd, beneath these stones,
David ap-Morgan, ap-Shenkin, ap-Jones;
Hur was born in Wales, hur was travell'd in France,
And hur went to heaven--by a bad mischance.

* * * * *

Card Table Epitaph on a Lady, whose Ruin and Death
were caused by gaming.

Clarissa reign'd the _Queen_ of _Hearts_,
Like _sparkling Diamonds_ were her eyes;
But through the _Knave_ of _Clubs_, false arts,
Here bedded by a _Spade_ she lies.

* * * * *

Reader, in that peace of earth,
In peace rest Thomas Arrowsmith.
In peace he lived, in peace went hence,
With God & men & conscience:
Peace for other men he sought,
And peace with pieces sometimes bought.
Pacifici, may others bee,
But ex pace factro hee.

* * * * *

Ann Mitchell.

Loe here I lye till Trumpets sound,
And Christ for me shall call;
And then I hope to rise again,
And dye no more at all.

* * * * *

O Merciful Jesu that Brought
Mans Soule from Hell;
Have Mercy of the Soule
of Jane Bell.

* * * * *

On a very idle Fellow.

Here lieth one that once was born & cried,
Liv'd several years, & then--& then--he died.

* * * * *

On a Great consumer of Bread, Cheese, and Tobacco.

Here gaffer B . . . Jaws are laid at Ease,
Whose Death has dropped the price of Bread & Cheese.
He Eat, he drank, he smoked, and then
He Eat, and drank, and smoked again.
So Modern Patriots, rightly understood,
Live to themselves, and die for Public Good.

* * * * *

Thin in beard, and thick in purse,
Never man beloved worse;
He went to the grave with many a curse:
The devil and he had both one nurse.

* * * * *

They were so one, that none could say
Which of them ruled, or whether did obey,
He ruled, because she would obey; and she,
In so obeying, ruled as well as he.

* * * * *

Good People draw near,
There is no need of a tear,
Merry L . . . is gone to his Bed;
I am placed here to tell,
Where now lies the shell,
If he had any soul it is fled.
Make the Bells ring aloud,
And be joyful the croud,
For Mirth was his favourite theme,
Which to Praise he turned Poet,
Its fit you should know it,
Since he has left nothing more than his name.

* * * * *

On an Ass (by the late late Dr. Jenner).

Beneath this hugh hillock here lies a poor creature,
So gentle, so easy, so harmless his nature;
On earth by kind Heav'n he surely was sent,
To teach erring mortals the road to content;
Whatever befel him, he bore his hard fate,
Nor envied the steed in his high pamper'd state;
Though homely his fare was, he'd never repine;
On a dock could he breakfast, on thistles could dine;
No matter how coarse or unsavoury his salad,
Content made the flavour suit well with his palate.
Now, Reader, depart, and, as onward you pass,
Reflect on the lesson you've heard from an Ass.

* * * * *

On a Henpecked Country Squire.

As father Adam first was fool'd,
A case that's still too common,
Here lies a man a woman rul'd,
The devil rul'd the woman.

* * * * *

On a Potter.

How frail is man--how short life's longest day!
Here lies the worthy Potter, turned to clay!
Whose forming hand, and whose reforming care,
Has left us full of flaws. Vile earthenware!

* * * * *

It was his usual custom in company when he told anything, to ask, d'ye hear? and if any one said no, John would reply, no matter, I've said.

Death came to John
And whisper'd in his ear,
You must die John,
D'ye hear?

Quoth John to Death
The news is bad.
No matter, quoth Death,
I've said.

* * * * *

Punning Epitaph.

Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Chesterfield, caused this whimsical
allusion or pun upon his name to be put upon his grave-stone;--Two
cyphers of C. C. and underneath,
Sum quod fui, "I am what I was."

* * * * *

Oldys thus translates from Camden an epitaph upon a tippling red-nosed ballad maker, of the time of Shakespeare:--

Dead drunk, here Elderton doth lie:
Dead as he is, he still is dry;
So of him it may well be said,
Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.

* * * * *

On a Juggler.

Death came to see thy tricks, and cut in twain
Thy thread. Why did'st not make it whole again?

* * * * *

To a Magistrate's Widow.

Her husband died, and while she tried
To live behind, could not, and died.

* * * * *

Epitaph on the Parson of a parish.

Come let us rejoice merry boys at his fall,
For egad, had he lived he'd a buried us all.

* * * * *

On a Baker.

Richard Fuller lies buried here,
Do not withhold the crystal tear,
For when he liv'd he daily fed
Woman and man and child with bread.
But now alas he's turned to dust,
As thou and I and all soon must,
And lies beneath this turf so green,
Where worms do daily feed on him.

* * * * *

An Original.

Here lies fast asleep, awake me who can,
The medley of passion and follies, a Man
Who sometimes lov'd licence and sometimes restraint,
Too much of the sinner, too little of saint;
From quarter to quarter I shifted my tack;
Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack;
But, alas! I soon found the defects of my skill,
And my nostrums in practice proved treacherous still;
From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to seek ease,
The remedy oft proved another disease;
What in rapture began often ended in sorrow,
And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-morrow;
When each action was o'er and its errors were seen,
Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had been;
My body and mind were so oddly contrived,
That at each other's failing both parties conniv'd,
Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain,
The body diseas'd paid the debt back again.
Thus coupled together life's journey they pass'd,
Till they wrangled and jangled and parted at last;
Thus tired and weary, I've finished my course,
And glad it is bed time, and things are no worse.

* * * * *

On a Publican.

Thomas Thompson's buried here,
And what is more he's in his bier,
In life thy bier did thee surround,
And now with thee is in the ground.

* * * * *

On a Porter, who died suddenly under a load.

Pack'd up within these dark abodes,
Lies one in life inur'd to loads,
Which oft he carried 'tis well known,
Till Death pass'd by and threw him down.

When he that carried loads before,
Became a load which others bore
To this his inn, where, as they say,
They leave him till another day.

* * * * *

On a Publican.

A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King's Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till death my license took away
And put me in this house of clay,
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.

* * * * *

On a Parish Clerk.

Here lies, within this tomb so calm,
Old Giles, pray sound his knell,
Who thought no song was like a psalm,
No music like a bell.

* * * * *

Here lies John Adams, who received a thump
Right in the forehead from the parish pump,
Which gave him his quietus in the end,
Tho' many doctors did his case attend.

* * * * *

On Mr. Cumming.

"Give me the best of men," said Death
To Nature--"quick, no humming,"
She sought the man who lies beneath,
And answered, "Death, he's Cumming."

* * * * *

On Sir Philip Sidney.

_England_ hath his body, for she it fed,
_Netherland_ his blood, in her defence shed;
The _Heavens_ hath his soul,
The _Arts_ have his fame,
The _Soldier_ his grief,
The _World_ his good name.

* * * * *

There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:--

Beneath this stone his own dear child,
Whose gone from we
For ever more unto eternity;
Where we do hope that we shall go to he,
But him can never more come back to we.

* * * * *

On a Chemist.

Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamate
With Clay,
In Balneo Arenae
Stratum super Stratum,
The Residuum, Terra damnata, and Caput
Mortuum
Of Boyle Godfry, Chemist
And M.D.
A man, who in his earthly Laboratory
Pursued various Processes to obtain
Areanum Vitae
Or the secret to live;
Also Aurum Vitae,
Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold.
Alchemist like,
All his Labour and Profection,
As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in Fuomo
When he dissolv'd to his first Principles,
He departed as poor
As the last Drops of an Alembic;
For riches are not poured
On the Adepts of this world.
Though fond of News, he carefully avoided
The Fermentation, Effervescence,
And Decrepitation of this Life.
Full Seventy years his exalted Essence
Was Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras,
But the radical Moisture being exhausted,
The Elixir Vitae spent,
And exsiccated to a Cuticle,
He could not suspend longer in his Vehicle
But precipitated Gradatim
Per Campanam.
To his Original Dust.
May that light, brighter than Bolognian
Phosphorus, Preserve him from the
Athanor, Empyremna, &
Of the other
World.
Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of
this;
Highly Rectify'd & Volatize
His AEtheral Spirit,
Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this
Globe, place it in a proper Recipient,
Or Chrystalline Orb,
Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin,
Never to be Saturated,
Till the General Resuscitation,
Deflagration, Calcination,
And Sublimation of all Things.

* * * * *

On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.

What! kill a partridge in the month of May!
Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?

* * * * *

On Du Bois,
Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.

Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.

* * * * *

On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.

As the birds were the first of the architect kind,
And are still better builders than men,
What wonders may spring from a Nightingale's mind,
When St. Paul's was produced by a Wren.

* * * * *

On Mr. Churchill.

Says Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead."
Says Richard, "Tom, you lie;
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die."

* * * * *

On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,
Who, several years before his death, lost one of his
nether limbs.

Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,
Though his pickle was true Attic salt;
One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,
Though his wit was known never to halt.
A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,
With one limb taken off for wise ends;
Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,
Never failed to take off his best friends:
Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,
Was his practice for pastime or pelf;
For which 'twere no wonder, if both should rejoice
At the day when he took off himself.

* * * * *

On James Straw, an Attorney.

Hic jacet Jacobus Straw,
Who forty years, Sir, followed the law,
And when he died,
The Devil cried,
"Jemmy, gie's your paw."

* * * * *

On Robert Sleath.

Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to Bishop Hurd.

On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath
Passed through the turnpike gate of death.
To him would death no toll abate,
Who stopped the King at Wor'ster gate.

* * * * *

On Ned Purdon.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free
Who long was a bookseller's hack.
He led such a damnable life in this world
I don't think he'll ever come back.

* * * * *

On Stephen Remnant.

Here's a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death,
Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath.
To mortality this gives a happy release,
For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.

* * * * *

A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and has been frequently printed. From the _Cambrian Register_, 1795 (Vol. I. p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666. The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of Francis Kynaston.

Here lyes, by name, the world's mother,
By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother;
My grandmother, mother to my mother;
My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother;
My grandfather's daughter and his mother;
All which may rightly be,
Without the breach of consanguinity.

* * * * *

On Robert Pemberton.

Here lies _Robin_, but not _Robin Hood_;
Here lies _Robin_ that never did good;
Here lies _Robin_ by heaven forsak'n;
Here lies _Robin_--the devil may tak'n.

* * * * *

On a Stay Maker.

Alive, unnumber'd stays he made,
(He work'd industrious night and day;)
E'en dead he still pursues his trade,
For here _his bones will make a stay_.

* * * * *

Brevity of life.

Man's life's a vapour,
And full of woes;
He cuts a caper,
And down he goes.

* * * * *

By Boileau, the Poet.

Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows,
Not less for mine, than her repose!

* * * * *

Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife,
Who led a pretty jarring life;
But all is ended--do you see?
He holds his tongue, and so does she.

* * * * *

If drugs and physic could but save
Us mortals from the dreary grave,
'Tis known that I took full enough
Of the apothecaries' stuff
To have prolonged life's busy feast
To a full century at least;
But spite of all the doctors' skill,
Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you're alive,
I was sent here at twenty-five.

* * * * *

Poor Jerry's Epitaph.

Here lies poor Jerry,
Who always seem'd merry,
But happiness needed.
He tried all he could
To be something good,
But never succeeded.
He married two wives:
The first good, but somewhat quaint;
The second very good--like a saint.
In peace may they rest.
And when they come to heaven,
May they all be forgiven
For marrying such a pest.

* * * * *

On three infants.

If you're disposed to weep for sinners dead,
About these children trouble not your head,
Reserve your grief for them of riper years,
They as has never sinned can't want no tears.

* * * * *

On a Drunkard.

The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.
He's top'd his last and reeled to bed.

* * * * *

On a Rum and Milk Drinker.

Rum and milk I had in store,
Till my poor belly could hold no more:
It caused me to be so fat,
My death was owing unto that.

* * * * *

On Joseph Crump, a Musician.

Once ruddy and plump,
But now a pale lump,
Beneath this safe hump,
Lies honest Joe Crump,
Who wish'd to his neighbours no evil,
Who, tho' by Death's thump
He's laid on his rump,
Yet up he shall jump
When he hears the last trump,
And triumph o'er Death and the Devil.

* * * * *

On Sir Isaac Newton.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night,
God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

* * * * *

An Attorney.

Here lieth one who often lied before,
But now he lies here he lies no more.

* * * * *

On Peter Wilson,
Who was drowned.

Peter was in the ocean drown'd,
A careless, hapless creature!
And when his lifeless trunk was found,
It was become Salt Peter.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of an honest man.
And when he died he owed nobody nothing.

* * * * *

Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeare
To diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE.
Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es Stones
And curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.

* * * * *

Underneath this stone doth lie,
As much beauty as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.

* * * * *

To the memory of Mary Clow, &c.

A vertuous wife, a loving mother,
And one esteemed by all that knew her.

And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks
of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse
to the end.

* * * * *

Old Epitaph.

As I was so are ye,
As I am You shall be,
That I had that I gave,
That I gave that I have,
Thus I end all my cost,
That I left that I lost.

* * * * *

Epitaph on a Bell Ringer.

Stephen & time now are even,
Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

* * * * *

Here lies
Elizabeth Wise.
She died of Thunder sent from Heaven
In 1777.

* * * * *

On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox.

At once depriv'd of life, lies here,
A family to virtue dear.
Though far remov'd from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Lest one should feel the other's fall,
Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.

* * * * *

George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a few hours before his decease. An application was made by Messrs. Tippens, addressed to the judge "if living, or his executors," for the payment of a bill. The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours prior to his death, and was as follows:--

"Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear'd by you,
Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true,
That I am dead; and, more afflicting still,
My legal assets cannot pay your bill.
To think of this, I am almost broken hearted,
Insolvent I, this earthly life departed;
Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing,
For executors and self,

George Hardinge."

* * * * *

The manner of her death was thus,
She was druv over by a Bus.

* * * * *

Here lies Martha wife of Hugh,
Born at St Ansell's, buried at Kew,
Children in wedlock they had five,
Three are dead & two are alive,
Those who are living had much rather
Die with the Mother than live with the Father.

* * * * *

"The Body
of
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Printer,
(like the cover of an old book,
its contents torn out,
and stripped of its lettering and gilding),
lies here, food for worms;
yet the work itself shall not be lost;
for it will, as he believed, appear once more
in a new and more beautiful edition,
corrected and amended
by
THE AUTHOR!"

* * * * *

Singular Epitaph.

Careless and thoughtless all my life,
Stranger to every source of strife,
And deeming each grave sage a fool,
The law of nature was my rule.
By which I learnt to duly measure
My portion of desire and pleasure.
'Tis strange that here I lie you see,
For death must have indulged a whim,
At any time t' have thought of me,
Who never once did think of him.

* * * * *

On Earle the boxer.

Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11th of April 1788
gave in.

* * * * *

She lived genteely on a small income.

* * * * *

Epitaph on a Gamester.

Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,
Who left the room without a shilling,
Losing each stake, till he had thrown
His last, and lost the game to Death;
If Paradise his soul has won,
'Twas a rare stroke of luck i'faith!

* * * * *

On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.

Here lies who never lied before,
And one who never will lie More,
To which there need be no more said,
Than More the pity she is dead,
For when alive she charmed us More
Than all the Mores just gone before.

* * * * *

On a Wife (by her Husband.)

Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,
In death my comfort, and my plague through life.
Oh! liberty--but soft, I must not boast;
She'll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!

* * * * *

"Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed, appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:"--

A good mother I have been,
Many troubles I have seen,
All my life I've done my best,
And so I hope my soul's at rest.

* * * * *

On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of Peach.

BY MR. BISSET.

DEATH long had wish'd within his reach,
So sweet, so delicate a PEACH:
He struck the Tree--the trunk lay mute;
But _Angels_ bore away the _Fruit_!

* * * * *

Here lies my poor wife,
Without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door nail,
God be thanked.

* * * * *

Epitaph on a violent Scold.

My spouse and I full many a year
Liv'd man and wife together,
I could no longer keep her here,
She's gone--the Lord knows whither.

Of tongue she was exceeding free,
I purpose not to flatter,
Of all the wives I e'er did see,
None sure like her could chatter.

Her body is disposed of well,
A comely grave doth hide her,
I'm sure her soul is not in hell,
For old Nick could ne'er abide her.

Which makes me guess she's gone aloft,
For in the last great thunder,
Methought I heard her well known voice
Rending the skies asunder.

* * * * *

On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.

Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,
Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_;
Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,
He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_.

* * * * *

Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,
If I said I regretted her--I should lie too.

* * * * *

On a Scold.

Here lies, thank God, a woman who
Quarrell'd and stormed her whole life through,
Tread gently o'er her mould'ring form,
Or else you'll raise another storm.

* * * * *

On a Wife (by her Husband).

Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,
She's happy, and I'm contented.

* * * * *

One was our thought, One life we fought,
One rest we both intended,
Our bodies have to sleepe one grave,
Our soules to God ascended.

* * * * *

Conjugal Epitaph.