Quaint Epitaphs Part 11

Poor Joe is gone but left his _awl_ You'll find his relics in a stall.

His works were neat and often found Well st.i.tched and with morocco bound.

Tread lightly where the bard is laid; He cannot mend the shoe he made.

Yet he is happy in his hole With verse immortal as his soul; But still to business he held fast And stuck to Pheabus to the _last_.

Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only leather and prunello?

For character he did not lack it And 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, Undertaker.

Here lies Bob Master. Faith! t'was very hard To take away an honest Robin's breath.

Yes, surely Robin was full well prepared For 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 pet.i.tion 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 _Man_ the 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 repose Lies William Rich of Lydeard Close.

Eight wives he had yet none survive And likewise children eight times five, From whom an issue vast did pour Of great grandchildren five times four.

Rich born, rich bred, yet Fate adverse His wealth and fortune did reverse.

He lived and died immensely poor July 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, Pedlar.

I lodged have in many a town And travelled many a year.

Till age and death have brought me down To 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 trees Is buried the body of Solomon Pease.

But here in this hole lies only his pod His soul is sh.e.l.led out and gone up to G.o.d.

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 ten And saved a dinner by it.

Here lies the body of Sarah s.e.xton She 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 tomb Some 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 hea.r.s.e Lies the subject of all verse; Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.

Death ere thou hast slain another Wise and fair and good as she Time 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 Blake.

Written by Sir Thomas Moore at her urgent entreaty.

Good Susan Blake in royal state Arrived at last at Heaven's gate.

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