Chapter IV: Part 4

Here rest my spouse, no pair through life,
So equal liv'd as we did;
Alike we shared perpetual strife,
Nor knew I rest till she did.

* * * * *

An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.
Another version.
(From an old Book of Job.)

We lived one and twenty yeare,
Like man and wife together;
I could no longer have her heere,
She's gone, I know not whither.
If I could guesse, I doe professe,
(I speak it not to flatter)
Of all the women in the worlde,
I never would come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave doth hide her,
And sure her soule is not in hell,
The fiend could ne'er abide her.
I think she mounted up on hie,
For in the last great thunder,
Mee thought I heard her voice on hie,
Rending the clouds in sunder.

* * * * *

Within this place a vertvous virgin lies,
Much like those virgins that were counted wise,
Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt,
Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt,
And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay,
Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day,
When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come,
To take her with him to the wedding roome.

* * * * *

Amy Mitchell,
1724 aged 19.

Here lies a virgin cropt in youth,
A Xtian both in name and truth,
Forbear to mourn, she is not dead,
But gone to marry Christ her head.

* * * * *

On a Woman who had three Husbands.

Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,
Who pleased three men, and never vexed one,
That she can't say beneath the next stone.

* * * * *

Marianne S--.

Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandae
Inane hoc, tamen ultimum,
Amoris consecrat testimonium,
Maritus, heu! superstes.

The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral inscriptions.

* * * * *

Short was her life,
Longer will be her rest;
Christ call'd her home,
Because he thought it best.

For she was born to die,
To lay her body down,
And young she did fly,
Into the world unknown.

5 years & 9 months.

* * * * *

Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who when she lived did naught but scold.
Peace! wake her not for now she's still,
She _had_, but now _I_ have my will.

* * * * *

Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her tombstone after her decease:--

I now have fallen asleep--my troubles gone,
For while on earth, I had full many a one,
When I get up again--as Parson says,
I hope that I shall see some better days.
If Husband he should make a second suit
His second wife will find that he's a _brute_.
He often made my poor sad heart to sigh,
And often made me weep from _one poor eye_,
The other he knocked out by a violent blow,
As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know.
I hope he will not serve his next rib so,
But if he should, will put the two together,
And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.

* * * * *

On Jemmy Jewell.

'Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh,
When I'm to write an epitaph.
Here lies the bones of a rakish _Timmy_
Who was a _Jewell_ & a _Jemmy_.

He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings,
And twice ten thousand pretty things;
Now he supplies Old _Nick_ with fuel,
And there's an end of _Jemmy Jewell_.

* * * * *

On Thomas Knowles & his Wife.

Thomas Knolles lies under this stone,
And his wife Isabell: flesh and bone
They were together nineteen year,
And ten children they had in fear.
His fader & he to this church
Many good deed they did worch.
Example by him may ye see,
That this world is but vanity;
For whether he be small or great,
All shall turn to worms' meat;
This said Thomas was lay'd on beere,
The eighth day the month Fevree,
The date of Jesu Christ truly,
Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty.
We may not pray; heartily pray he,
For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave.
The swarer of our pains lissed to be,
Grant us thy holy trinity. Amen.

* * * * *

On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that VERY RARE inscription beginning with "Afflictions sore," the second line affords the following choice specimen of orthography:--"Physicians are in vain."

Think nothing strange,
Chance happens unto all;
My lot's to-day,
To-morrow yours may fall.
Great afflictions I have had,
Which wore my strength away;
Then I was willing to submit
Unto this bed of clay.

* * * * *

On Burbridge, the Tragedian.

Exit Burbridge.

* * * * *

On the late Mr. Suett.

Here lies to mix with kindred earth,
A child of wit, of Glee and Mirth;
Hush'd are those powers which gave delight;
And made us laugh in reason's spite:
Thy "gibes and jests shall now no more
Set all the rabble in a roar."
Sons of Mirth, and Humour come,
And drop a tear on Suett's Tomb;
Nor ye alone, but all who view it,
Weep and Exclaim, Alas Poor Suett.

* * * * *

On the Tomb of a Murdered Man.

O holy Jove! my murderers, may they die
A death like mine--my buriers live in joy!

* * * * *

On a Magistrate who had formerly been a Barber.

Here lies Justice;--be this his truest praise:
He wore the wig which once he made,
And learnt to shave both ways.

* * * * *

To the Memory of Nell Batchelour,
The Oxford Pye-woman.

Here into the dust,
The mouldering crust
Of Eleanor Batchelour's shoven;
Well versed in the arts
Of pyes, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.
When she'd lived long enough
She made her last puff--
A puff by her husband much praised;
Now here she does lie,
And makes a dirt-pye,
In hopes that her crust may be raised.

* * * * *

On a Volunteer.

Here lies the gallant Captn King,
He's finished Life's review;
No more he'll stand on either wing,
For now he flies on two.

He was a gallant Volunteer,
But now his Rifle's rusty;
No more at drill will he appear,
His uniform is dusty.

No more he'll hear the Bugle's sound
Till Bugler Angels blow it,
Nor briskly march along the ground,
His body lies below it.

Let's hope when at the great parade
We all meet in a cluster,
With many another martial blade
He'll readily pass muster.

Seraphic sabre in his fist,
On heavenly drill reflective,
May he be placed upon the list,
Eternally effective.

* * * * *

On a Sailor.
Written by his messmate.

Here is honest Jack--to the lobsters a prey,
Who lived like a sailor free hearty and gay,
His riggings well fitted, his sides close and tight,
His bread room well furnished, his mainmast upright;
When Death, like a pirate built solely for plunder,
Thus hail'd Jack in a voice loud as thunder,
"Drop your peak my old boy, and your topsails throw back!
For already too long you've remain'd on that tack."
Jack heard the dread call, and without more ado,
His sails flatten'd in and his bark she broach'd to.

* * * * *

Laconic Epitaph.

Snug.

* * * * *

On a Seaman.

My watch perform'd, lo here at rest I lay,
Not to turn out till resurrection day.

* * * * *

Laconic Epitaph on a Sailor.

I caught a feaver--weather plaguey hot,
Was boarded by a Leech--and now am gone to pot.

* * * * *

On an honest Sailor.

Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast;
Poor Tom's mizen topsail is laid to the mast;
He'll never turn out, or more heave the lead;
He's now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead;
He ever was brisk, &, though now gone to wreck,
When he hears the last whistle he'll jump upon deck.

* * * * *

Epitaph on a Sailor.

Tom Taugh lies below, as gallant arous.

* * * * *

On a Man who was killed by a blow from a Sky Rocket.

Here I lie,
Killed by a Sky
Rocket in my eye.

* * * * *

On a Post Boy, who was killed by the overturning of a Chaise.

Here I lays,
Killed by a Chaise.

* * * * *

Here lies I no wonder I'se dead,
For a broad wheeled Waggon went over my head

* * * * *

On a Miser.

Here lies one for medicine would not give
A little gold, and so his life he lost;
I fancy now he'd wish to live again,
Could he but know how much his funeral cost.

* * * * *

On a Miser.

Iron was his chest,
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,
And his heart was more.

* * * * *

On a Miser.

Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried "_Jam satis_;"
'Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.

* * * * *

On an Old Covetous Usurer.

You'd have me say, here lies T. U.
But I do not believe it;
For after Death there's something due,
And he's gone to receive it.

* * * * *

On an Usurer.

Here lies ten in the hundred
In the ground fast ram'd,
'Tis an hundred to ten,
But his soul is damned.

* * * * *

Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue
Officers.

Here I lies
Killed by the XII.

* * * * *

On a Miser.

Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied
plenty to himself, and assistance to his friends, and relief to the
poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued
himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful
to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family
from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the
dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have
spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth
and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

* * * * *

On John D'Amory, the Usurer.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demar the wealthy and wise.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcase in a Chest.
The very Chest, in which, they say
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that Four in Five
Will think his better self alive.

* * * * *

On William Clay.

A long affliction did my life attend,
But time with patience brought it to an end,
And now my body rests with Mother clay,
Until the joyful resurrection day.

* * * * *

Written on Montmaur,
A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment.

In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur of
happy memory, _awaiting his judgement_.

* * * * *

On an Invalid.
Written by Himself.

Here lies a head that often ached;
Here lie two hands that always shak'd;
Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
Here lies a heart that often beat;
Here lie two eyes that dimly wept,
And in the night but seldom slept;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd;--
Here lie two feet that feebly walked;
Here lie the midriff and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lives the liver full of bile,
That ne'er secreted proper chyle;
Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortured with wind and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life's sad tragic scene,
That left side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates Nature's circling flood;
Here lies the back, oft racked with pains,
Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
With pimples and irruptions red;
Here lies the man from top to toe,
That fabric fram'd for pain and woe.

* * * * *

On Sir John Vanbrugh.

Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
Laid many heavy loads on thee.

* * * * *

The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:--

"_Ten in the hundred_ lies here ingraved:
'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved:
If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb?
Oh! oh! QUOTH THE DEVIL, 'TIS MY JOHN-A-COMBE."

* * * * *

On Dr. Fuller.

Here lies _Fuller's_ earth.

* * * * *

On a Card-maker.

His card is cut; long days he shuffled through
The game of Life; he dealt as others do.
Though he by honours tells not its amount,
When the last trump is played his tricks will count.

* * * * *

On a Man and his Wife.

Stay, bachelor, if you have wit,
A wonder to behold:
Husband and wife, in one dark pit,
Lie still and never scold.

Tread softly tho' for fear she wakes;--
Hark, she begins already:
You've hurt my head;--my shoulder akes;
These sots can ne'er move steady.

Ah friend, with happy freedom blest!
See how my hopes miscarry'd:
Not death can give me rest,
Unless you die unmarry'd.

* * * * *

Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen,
The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men.

"_N.B._--The name is Woodcock, but it would'nt come in rhyme!"

* * * * *

On Marshal Sare.

N.B.--The figures are to be pronounced in French as un, deux, trois, etc.

Ses vertus le feront admire de chac 1 Il avait des Rivaux, mais il triompha 2 Les Batailles qu'il gagna sont au nombre de 3 Pour Louis son grand coeur se serait mis en 4 En amour, c'etait peu pour lui d'aller a 5 Nous l'aurions s'il n'eut fait que le berger Tir' 6 Pour avoir trop souvent passe douze "Hie-ja" 7 Il a cesse de vivre en Decembre 8 Strasbourg contient son corps dans un Tombeau tout 9 Pour tant de "Te Deum" pas un "De profun" 10 --- He died at the age of 55

_a_. Tircis, the name of a celebrated Arcadian shepherd.

_b_. A great personage of the day remarked that it was a pity after the Marshal had by his victories been the cause of so many "Te Deums," that it would not be allowed (the Marshal dying in the Lutheran faith) to chant one "de profundis," over his remains.

* * * * *

On Thomas Jones.

Here for the nonce,
Came _Thomas Jones_,
In St. Giles's Church to lye;
Non Welch before,
None Welchman more,
Till Show Clerk dy.

He tole his bell,
He ring his knell.
He dyed well,
He's sav'd from hell,
And so farewell,

Tom Jones.

* * * * *

On Dr. Walker, who wrote a book called "Particles:"--

Here lie Walker's Particles.

* * * * *

The tomb of Keats the Poet.

This grave contains
all
that was mortal
of a
young English Poet,
who
on his death bed,
in the bitterness of his heart
at the malicious power of his enemies,
desired these
words to be engraved on his tombstone:
"Here lies one
whose name was writ in water."
February 24, 1821.

* * * * *

On Mr. Quin.

Says Epicure Quin, Should the devil in hell,
In fishing for men take delight,
His hook bait with ven'son, I love it so well,
Indeed I am sure I should bite.

* * * * *

Here lies Sir John Plumpudding of the Grange,
Who hanged himself one morning for a change.

* * * * *

On John Bell.

I Jocky Bell o' Braikenbrow, lyes under this stane,
Five of my awn sons laid it on my wame;
I liv'd aw my dayes, but sturt or strife,
Was man o' my meat, and master o' my wife.
If you done better in your time, than I did in mine,
Take this stane aff my wame, and lay it on o' thine.

* * * * *

On Mr. Havard, Comedian.

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."

Havard from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
An honest man--beloved as soon as known;
However defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly played his part!
The noblest character he acted well,
And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

* * * * *

On Robin Masters, Undertaker.

Here lieth Robin Masters--Faith 'twas hard
To take away our honest Robin's breath;
Yet surely Robin was full well prepared,
Robin was always looking out for death.

* * * * *

On an Undertaker.

Subdued by death, here death's great herald lies,
And adds a trophy to his victories;
Yet sure he was prepared, who, while he'd breath,
Made it his business to look for death.

* * * * *

On a Cobler.

Death at a cobler's door oft made a stand,
And always found him on the mending hand;
At last came Death, in very dirty weather,
And ripp'd the sole from off the upper leather.
Death put a trick upon him, and what was't?
The cobler called for's awl, Death brought his last.

* * * * *

On a Dustman.

Beneath yon humble clod, at rest
Lies Andrew, who, if not the best,
Was not the very worst man;
A little rakish, apt to roam;
But not so now, he's quite at home,
For Andrew was a _Dustman_.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of John Cole,
His master loved him like his soul;
He could rake hay--none could rake faster,
Except that raking dog, his master.

* * * * *

Mr. Langford, Auctioneer.

So, so, Master Langford, the hammer of Death
Hath knock'd out your brains, and deprived you of breath;
'Tis but tit for tat, he who puts up the town,
By Devil or Death must at last be knock'd down.

* * * * *

On a man named Stone.

Jerusalem's curse was not fulfilled in me,
For here a stone upon a Stone you see.

* * * * *

On Thomas Day.

Here lies Thomas Day,
Lately removed from over the way.

* * * * *

Epitaph by Burns.
(On a man choked by a piece of bread!)

Here I lie, killed by a crumb,
That wouldn't go down, nor wouldn't up come.

* * * * *

On John Treffry, Esq.

Here in this Chancel do I lye,
Known by the name of John Treffry.
Being born & made for to die;
So must thou, friend, as well as I.
Therefore good works be sure to try,
But chiefly love & Charity;
And still on them with faith rely,
To be happy eternally.

This was put up during his life, who was a whimsical man. He had his grave dug, & lay down and swore in it, to show the sexton a novelty, _i.e._, a man swearing in his grave.

* * * * *

On -- Hatt.

By Death's impartial scythe was mown
Poor Hatt--he lies beneath this stone;
On him misfortune oft did frown,
Yet Hatt ne'er wanted for a crown;
When many years of constant wear
Had made his beaver somewhat bare,
Death saw, and pitying his mishap,
Has given him here a good long nap.

* * * * *

Here I, Thomas Wharton, do lie,
With Lucifer under my head,
And Nelly my wife hard bye,
And Nancy as cold as lead.

O, how can I speak without dread
Who could my sad fortune abide?
With one devil under my head,
And another laid close on each side.

* * * * *

On William Jones, a Bone Collector

Here lie the bones of William Jones,
Who when alive collected bones,
But Death, that grisly bony spectre,
That most amazing bone collector,
Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy,
That here he lies in bona fide.

* * * * *

The late Rev. John Sampson, of Kendal.
Sacrum

In memoriam viri doctissimi et clerici, Joannis Sampson,
olim hujusce sacelli ministri, itemque ludi literarii apud
Congalum triginta septem fere annos magistri seduli;
hoc marmor ponendum quidam discipulus praeceptorem
merens curavit.
Ob: An: aetatis suae LXXVII; A.D. MDCCCXLIII.
Foris juxta januam e dextra introeunti sepultum est
corpus.
Problemata plurima geometrica proposuit ac solvit; ad
haec accedunt versus haud pauci, latine et manu sua
scripti; quorum exemplum infra insculptum est; adeo
ut Christiano tum mentem, tum viri fidem cognoscere
liceat.

"[Greek text]."

"Quandocunque sophos clarus sua dogmata profert,
"Nil valet [Greek text], ni documenta daret;"
"At mihi cum Christus loquitur, verum, via, vita,
"Tum vero fateor sufficit [Greek text]."

* * * * *

Epitaph on the Mareschal Comte de Ranzan, a Swede, who accompanied Oxenstiern to Paris, and was taken into the French service by Louis XIII. He died of hydrophobia in 1650. He had been in innumerable battles, had lost an eye and two limbs, and his body was found to be entirely covered with scars.

Stop, passenger! this stone below
Lies half the body of Ranzan:
The other moiety's scattered far
And wide o'er many a field of war;
For to no land the hero came,
On which he shed not blood and fame.
Mangled or maim'd each meaner part,
One thing remain'd entire--his heart.

* * * * *

At Arlington, near Paris.

Here lie
Two grandmothers, with their two granddaughters
Two husbands with their two wives,
Two fathers with their two daughters,
Two mothers with their two sons,
Two maidens with their two mothers,
Two sisters with their two brothers.
Yet but six corps in all lie buried here,
All born legitimate, & from incest clear.

The above may be thus explained:--

Two widows, that were sisters-in-law, had each a son, who married each other's mother, and by them had each a daughter. Suppose one widow's name Mary, and her son's name John, and the other widow's name Sarah, and her son's James; this answers the fourth line. Then suppose John married Sarah, and had a daughter by her, and James married Mary, and had a daughter also, these marriages answer the first, second, third, fifth, and sixth lines of the epitaph.

* * * * *

Sudden and unexpected was the end
Of our esteemed and beloved friend.
He gave to all his friends a sudden shock
By one day falling into Sunderland Dock.

* * * * *

At Sakiwedel.

Traveller, hurry not, as if you were going _post_-haste; in the most
rapid journey you must stop at the _post_ house. Here repose the
bones of MATTHIAS SCHULZEN, the most humble and most faithful
_Postmaster_, for upwards of Twenty-five years, of His Majesty,
Frederick, King of Prussia. He arrived 1655; and afterwards
travelled with distinction in life's pilgrimage, by walking courses
in the Schools and Universities. He carefully performed his duties
as a Christian, and when the _post_ of misfortune came, he behaved
according to the _letter_ of divine consolation. His body, however,
ultimately being enfeebled, he was prepared to attend the signal
given by the _post_ of death; when his soul set off on her pleasing
journey for Paradise, the 2nd of June, 1711; and his body afterwards
was committed to this silent tomb. Reader, in thy pilgrimage through
life, be mindful of the prophetic _post_ of Death!

* * * * *

Dear Husband, now my life is past,
And I am stuck in Earth so fast,
I pray no sorrow for me take,
But love my Children, for my sake;--

* * * * *

Hamburgh.

"O Mors Cur Deus Negat Vitam
be te bis nos bis nam."

Solution.

O! Superbe! Mors Super--te!
Cur Superbis?
Deus Supernos! negat Superbis
Vitam Supernam.

* * * * *

On the Duke of Burgundy's tomb in St. George's Church, near Conde:--

"Carolus hoc busto Burgundae gloria gentis,
Conditur, Europae qui fuit ante timor."

* * * * *

Near the left wall in the Protestant-ground at Rome is a monument to Lord Barrington, and a tombstone to the infant child of Mr. William Lambton:--

Go thou, white in thy soul, and fill a throne
Of innocence and purity in heaven!

* * * * *

Silo Princeps Fecit.

T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T I C E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P S F E C E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P E C N I R P O L I S I L O P R I N C E P E C N I R P O L I L O P R I N C E P S P E C N I R P O L O P R I N C E P S F S P E C N I R P O P R I N C E P S F E F S P E C N I R P R I N C E P S F E C E F S P E C N I R I N C E P S F E C I C E F S P E C N I N C E P S F E C I T I C E F S P E C N C E P S F E C I T

At the entrance of the Church of St. Salvador in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, is a most remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named Silo, with this very curious Latin inscription which may be read 270 ways by beginning with the capital letter S in the centre.

* * * * *

On a tombstone in the churchyard at Hochheim, a village where one of the best species of Rhenish is produced, and from the name of which our generic Hock is derived:--

This grave holds Caspar Schink, who came to dine,
And taste the noblest vintage of the Rhine;
Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank,
Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.
One only comfort have we in the case,--
The trump will raise him in the proper place.

* * * * *

Here lies Peg, that drunken sot,
Who dearly loved her jug and pot;
There she lies, as sure as can be,
She killed herself by drinking brandy.

* * * * *

Calcutta.

Bene:
AT. HT, Hi S: ST--
Oneli: E: Skat. .
He, Ri, N. eg. Rayc--
(Hang'd)
. F . R.
O! mab. V, Syli, Fetol--
IF . . Ele:
(SSCL)
Ayb... Year.
. Than.
Dcl--Ays
: Hego.
Therpel:
. Fand.
No, WS. He: stur
N'D to Ear,
TH, h, Ersel
Fy! EWE: EP....
In: G. F. R: IE: N
D. S. L.
Et, mea D
V: I
Sea: ...... Batey.
O! V: rg.....
RiE .... Fan.
. D. D.
RYY. O! V.R.E
Yes. F.O.R W: H
. ATa.
Vai .... LS. a. flo.
O! do. F. Tea. R.
SW: Hok: No: WS:
Buti. nar. U.
No! Fy: Ear, SI: N.
SO: Metal:
L. Pit. c.
HERO: . . r. Bro, a:
D. P.
ANS, Hei
N. H.
Ers. Hop. ma:
Y. B.
Ea: Gai .... N. .

* * * * *

The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.

His last _steak_ done; his fire rak'd out and dead,
_Dished_ for the worms himself, lies _honest Ned_:
_We_, then, whose breasts bore all his _fleshly toils_,
Took all his _bastings_, and shared all his _broils_;
Now, in our turn, a _mouthful carve_ and _trim_,
And _dress_ at Phoebus' _fire_, one _scrap_ for him:--
His heart which well might grace the noblest grave,
Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave;
And ne'er did earth's wide maw _a morsel_ gain
Of _kindlier juices_ or more tender _grain_;
His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt,
Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt;
Still to whatever end his _chops_ he mov'd,
'Twas all _well seasoned_, _relished_, and approv'd:
This room his heaven!--When threatening Fate drew nigh
The closing shade that dimm'd his ling'ring eye,
His last fond hopes, betray'd by many a tear,
Were--That his life's last _spark_ might glimmer here;
And the last words that choak'd his parting sigh--
"Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!"

* * * * *

Ann Short.

Ann _Short_, O Lord, of praising thee,
Nothing I can do is right;
Needy and naked, poor I be,
_Short_, Lord, I am of sight:
How _short_ I am of love and grace!
Of everything I'm _short_,
Renew me, then I'll follow peace
Through good and bad report.

* * * * *

Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our Church organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling;
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Tho' he gave our old organist many a blast.
No puffer was he,
Tho' a capital blower;
He could fill double G,
And now lies a note lower.

* * * * *

In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably placed there as a _memento to Italian Toby Philpots_:--

"Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of
morning in a sober state. Even my bones are now thirsty. Stranger,
sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come. Farewell
Drinkers!"

* * * * *

Over a grave in Prince Edward's Island.

Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb,
Killed by a tree that fell slap bang.

* * * * *

Here lies the body of Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one;
Pray for the soul of Gabriel John,
You may if you please,
Or let it alone;
For its all one
To Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one.

* * * * *

Here lies John Bunn,
Who was killed by a gun;
His name wasn't Bun, his real name was Wood,
But Wood wouldn't rhyme with gun, so I thought Bun should.

* * * * *

In Memory of
THE STATE LOTTERY,
the last of a long line
whose origin in England commenced
in the year 1569,
which, after a series of tedious complaints,
_Expired_
on the
18th day of October, 1826.
During a period of 257 years, the family
flourished under the powerful protection
of the
British Parliament;
the minister of the day continuing to
give them his support for the
improvement of the revenue.
As they increased, it was found that their
continuance corrupted the morals,
and encouraged a spirit
of speculation and gambling among the
lower classes of the people;
thousands of whom fell victims to their
insinuating and tempting allurements.
Many philanthropic individuals
in the Senate
at various times for a series of years,
pointed out their baneful influence
without effect,
His Majesty's Ministers
still affording them their countenance
and protection.
The British Parliament
being at length convinced of their
mischievous tendency,
HIS MAJESTY GEORGE IV.,
on the 9th July, 1823,
pronounced sentence of condemnation
on the whole race;
from which time they were almost
NEGLECTED BY THE BRITISH PUBLIC.
Very great efforts were made by the
Partisans and friends of the family to
excite
the public feeling in favour of the last
of the race, in vain:
it continued to linger out the few
remaining
moments of its existence without attention
or sympathy, and finally terminated
its career, unregretted by any
virtuous mind.

* * * * *

'Twas by a fall I caught my death;
No man can tell his time or breath;
I might have died as soon as then
If I had had physician men.

* * * * *

On a Grocer.

Garret some call'd him,
but that was too hye;
His name is Garrard
who now here doth lie;
Weepe not for him,
since he is gone before
To heaven, where Grocers
there are many more.

* * * * *

THE END.

* * * * *

* * * * *

F. PICKTON, Printer, Perry's Place, 29 Oxford Street.

NOTES.

{48} A crown.

{80a} The stone joins to the south wall of the church, under one of the spouts.

{80b} Rufford Abbey, then the seat of Sir George Saville, Baronet, in whose family the person had lived as butler.

{90} A woman inferring that her husband is an _ass colt_.

<pre id="pg-footer">