Derbyshire.

On Sir Francis Vere.

When Vere sought death, arm’d with his sword and shield,Death was afraid to meet him in the field;But when his weapons he had laid aside,Death, like a coward, struck him, and he died.

Here lies the body of Joan Carthew,Born at St. Columb, died at St. Cue,Children she had five,Three are dead, and two alive,Those that are dead chusing ratherTo die with their Mother, than live with their Father.

Read backwards or forwards—Shall we all die?We shall die all.All die shall we—Die all we shall.

Read backwards or forwards—

Shall we all die?We shall die all.All die shall we—Die all we shall.

Date 1671.

Why here?—why not, it’s all one ground,And here none will my dust confound.My Saviour lay where no one did—Why not a member as his head,No quire to sing, no bells to ring,Why so thus buried was my king.I grudge the fashion of the dayTo fat the church and stane the lay,Though nothing now of the be seen,I hope my name and bed be green.

James Berlinner, killed at Huel Bedford, 1844.

Consider well both old and young,Who by my grave do pass,Death soon may come with his keen scythe,And cut you down like grass.Tho’ some of you perhaps may thinkFrom danger to be free,Yet in a moment may be sent,Into the grave like me.

William Kellaway,1822.

My body is turned to dust,As yours that living surely must,Both rich and poor to dust must fall,To rise again, when Christ doth call.

Elizabeth Roskelly,1844.

Farewell, dear husband, I bid adieu,I leave nine children to God and you;I hope you’ll live in peace and love,I trust we all shall meet above.Tho’ months and years in pain and tears,Through troubled paths I’ve trod,My Saviour’s voice bids me rejoice,And calls my soul to God.

Here lieth the body of John Robyns, of this parish, buried the 27th day of December, 1724, about the 80th year of his age.

“Prosopeia Defuncti.”“Mark thou that readest, and my case behold,Ere long thou shalt be closed in death’s fold,As well as I; nothing on earth can saveOur mortal bodies, from the darksome grave.Then timely think thereon, to mind thy end;Wisely to be prepared when God shall sendTo fetch thee hence; and then thou shalt but die,To live at rest with Christ eternally.“Here lieth John Robyns, in his bed of dust,Who in the Lord did ever put his trust;And dying, gave a pension to the poor,Yearly for ever, which unlocks the doorOf everlasting bliss, for him to reignWith Christ his head, his great, and truest gain:And with the holy angels sit and singEternal anthems to the heavenly king.”“If this stone be not kept in repair,The legacy devolves unto his heir.”

“Prosopeia Defuncti.”

“Mark thou that readest, and my case behold,Ere long thou shalt be closed in death’s fold,As well as I; nothing on earth can saveOur mortal bodies, from the darksome grave.Then timely think thereon, to mind thy end;Wisely to be prepared when God shall sendTo fetch thee hence; and then thou shalt but die,To live at rest with Christ eternally.“Here lieth John Robyns, in his bed of dust,Who in the Lord did ever put his trust;And dying, gave a pension to the poor,Yearly for ever, which unlocks the doorOf everlasting bliss, for him to reignWith Christ his head, his great, and truest gain:And with the holy angels sit and singEternal anthems to the heavenly king.”“If this stone be not kept in repair,The legacy devolves unto his heir.”

Here lies the Body of John Meadow,His life passed away like a shadow.

Here lies weBabies three,Here we must lieUntil the Lord do cry,“Come out, and, live wi’ I!”

On a defunct Parish Clerk.

The vocal Powers here let us mark,Of Philip our late Parish Clerk,In Church was ever heard a layman,With clearer voice say Amen?Who now with Hallelujah soundLike him can make the roofs rebound?The Choir lament his choral tones;The town so soon here lie his bones.Sleep undisturbed within thy peaceful shrine,Till angels wake thee with such notes as thine.

By Dr. Walcot, alias Peter Pindar.

To the Memory of Margaret Southcotte, who died the 27th of August, 1786, aged 12 years and 9 months.

Beneath this stone, in sweet repose,The friend of all, a fair one lies:Yet hence let Sorrow vent her woes,Far hence let Pity pour her sighs;Tho’ every hour thy life approv’d,The muse the strain of grief forbears;Nor wishes, tho’ by all belov’d,To call thee to a world of cares.Best of thy sex, alas! farewell,From this dark scene remov’d to shine,Where purest shades of mortals dwell,And virtue waits to welcome thine.

An ill-natured critic wrote the following under these beautiful lines:—

Can a Southcotte be said to deserve all the praiseWhich above in the rhymes may be seen?But ’tis not impossible, since the stone saysShe had not reached the age of thirteen!

“Here lies, in ahorizontalposition,the outsidecaseofGeorge Routleigh, Watchmaker,whose abilities in that line were an honour to hisprofession.Integrity was themainspring, and prudence theregulatorof all theactionsof his life;Humane, generous, and liberal, hishandneverstoppedtill he had relieved distress:So nicelyregulatedwas hismovements,that he neverwent wrong,except whenset a-goingby people who did not knowhis key:Even then he was easilyset rightagain.He had the art of disposing of hisTime,so well,That hishoursglided away in onecontinualroundof pleasure and delight,Till an unluckymomentput aperiodto his existence.He departed this life November 14, 1802,aged 57,wound up,in hopes of being taken inhandby hisMaker:and of being thoroughlycleaned,repaired, andset a-goingfor the world to come.”

Under this stone lies three children dear,Two be buried at Tawton, and the other here?

Here is a still more entertaining one, upon a certain lady in Devonshire, singularly free from any nonsensical pretence or idle bravado:—

“Here lies Betsy Cruden,She wood a leaf’d but she cooden,’Twas na grief na sorrow as made she decay,But this bad leg as carr’d she away.”

Vos qui ici venezPur l’alme Philip priez,Trente jours de pardonSerra vostre guerdon.

On Richard Adlam.

Richardus Adlam hujus ecclesiæ Vicarius obitFeb. 10, 1670. Apostrophe ad Mortem.“Dam’n’d tyrant, can’t profaner blood suffice?Must priests that offer be the sacrifice?Go tell the genii that in Hades lyeThy triumphs o’er this Sacred Calvary,Till some just Nemesis avenge our cause,And force this kill-priest to revere good laws!”

Billeted here by deathIn quarters I remain,When the last trumpet sounds,I’ll rise and march again.

On a man who was too poor to be buried with his relations in the Church:—

Here lie I, at the Chancel door;Here I lie, because I’m poor;The further in the more to pay;Here I lie as warm as they!

“Her marriage day appointed was,And wedding-clothes provided,But when the day arrivéd did,She sickened and she died did.”

“Here lies two brothers by misfortune surrounded,One died of his wounds and the other was drownded.”

To Bartholomew Doidge—And Joan his wife.

Joan was buried the 1stday of Feby.’ 1681.Bartholomew was buried the 12thday of Feby.’ 1681.“She first deceas’d—he a little try’d“To live without her—lik’d it not, and died.”

Here lie the remains of James Pady, Brickmaker, late of the parish, in hopes that his clay will be remoulded in a workmanlike manner, far superior to his former perishable materials.

Keep death and Judgement always in your eye,Or else the devil off with you will fly,And in his kiln with brimstone ever fry.If you neglect the narrow road to seek,Christ will reject you, like a half Burnt Brick.

John Phillips, 1837.

Vain man, in health and strength do not confide,This I enjoyed, yet in my bloom I died.Not long before as likely for to live,As any of the livliest sons of Eve.But death may come in an untimely way,Therefore prepare against that solemn day.

John Linning, 1824.

Stop, reader! stop and view this stone,And ponder well where I am gone.Then, pondering, take thou home this rhyme—The grave next opened may be thine.

Richard Snell, 1801.

At first I had a watery grave,Now here on earth a place I have;Wife and children don’t weep for me,Fortune and Fate none can forsee.

On Eadulph, Bishop of Devon, ob. 932.

Sis testis Christe, quod non jacet hic lapis iste,Corpus ut ornetur, sed spiritus ut memoretur.Quisquis eris qui transiris, sta, perlege, plora;Sum quod eris, fueramq; quod es; pro me precor ora.Christ! bear me witness, that this stone is notPut here t’adorn a body, that must rot;But keep a name, that it mayn’t be forgot.Whoso doth pass, stay, read, bewail, I amWhat thou must be; was what thou art the same;Then pray for me, ere you go whence ye came.

Elizabeth Farington, wife of John Farington, of the county of Nottingham. Twenty-five Knights were born in this family. 1738.

In Oxford born, in Lydford dust I lie,Don’t break my grave until yejudgment day.Then shall I rise, in shining glory bright,To meet my Lord with comfort and delight.

Wife of John Coleirm. 1694.

If thou be curious, friend, peruse this stone;If thou be not soe, pray let it alone.Against Death’s poison Virtue’s the best art,When good men seem to die, they but depart.Live well, then, all; with us thoult feele,Bare dying makes no Death, but dyingweal?[The last word was obliterated.]

[The last word was obliterated.]

John Spry and Margaret his wife.1738.

In a good old age,By death we did fall,And here we must lieUntil Christ doth call.

Gregory Nicholas. 1840.

—Sleep here awhile, Thou DearestPart of me, and in a little while I’llCome and sleep with thee.

Thomas Ching. 1857.

In health and strength from home I went,I thought so to return;But while at work I lost my life,And left my friends to mourn.Then thou who knowest my fate,While pondering o’er my sod,So short may be thy date,“Prepare to meet thy God.”

On the tomb of Edward Courtenay, third Earl of Devon, commonly called “the blind and good Earl,” an Epitaph, frequently quoted, appears. The Earl died in 1419, and his Countess was Maud, daughter of Lord Camoys.

Hoe! hoe! who lies here?I, the goode Erle of Devonshire;With Maud, my wife, to me full dere,We lyved togeather fyfty-fyve yere.What wee gave, wee have;Whatt wee spent wee had;What wee left, we loste.

Richard Shortridge. 1831.

Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow,That sends on the winds the tickings of woe,In sound like the knell of a spirit that’s fled,And tells us, alas! a brother is dead?Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov’dAnd lifeless the form that manfully mov’d,The clods of the valley encompass his head,This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.

John Penny.

Here honest John, who oft the turf had paced,And stopp’d his mother’s earth, in earth is placed,Nor all the skill of John himself could save,From being stopp’d within an earthly grave.A friend to sport, himself of sporting fame,John died, as he had lived, with heart of game—Nor did he yield until his mortal breathWas hard run down by that grim sportsman—Death.Reader, if cash thou art in want of any,Dig four feet deep, and thou wilt find—a Penny.

Since Man to Man is so unjust,That no Man knows what man to trust,My Roads are good, my Toll’s just,Pay to-day, to-morrow I’ll trust.

In memory of Eniah Harisdin.

Also 4 sons who received the shock,Whereof 3 lies here, and one do not.What caused their parents for to weep,Because that one lies in the Deep.

I poorly lived, I poorly died,And when I was buried nobody cried.

Not born, not dead, not christen’d, not begot,So! here she lies, that was, and that was not;She was born, baptized, is dead, and what is more,Was in her life, not honest, not a -----Reader, behold a wonder rarely wrought,And whilst thou seem’st to read, thou readestnot.

Frank from his Betty snatch’d by Fate,Shows how uncertain is our state;He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead—Flung from a horse that kick’d his head,But tho’ he’s gone, from tears refrain,At judgment he’ll get up again.

Here lies a piece of Christ—a star in dust;A vein of gold—a china dish,that must—Be used in Heaven, when Godshall feast the just.

To the memory of Thomas Bouchier, dated 1635.

The petterne of conjugale love, the rareMirroure of father’s care;Candid to all, his ev’ry action penn’dThe copy of a frend,His last words best, a glorious eve (they say)Foretells a glorious day,Erected and composed with teares by his pensivesonne, James Bouchier.

Amongst the ludicrous and eccentric Epitaphs, perhaps one of the worst is that at Gateshead, on Robert Trollop, architect of the Exchange and Town Court of Newcastle:—

“Here lies Robert Trollop,Who made yon stones roll up:When death took his soul up,His body filled this hole up.”

“Here lies Isaac Greentree.”

A man passing through the churchyard wrote as follows:—

There is a time when these green trees shall fall,And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.

Here lieth buriedJohn Porter, Yeoman,who died 29th of April, 1600,who had issue eight sons andfour daughters by one woman.Learn to live by faith, as I did live before,Learn u to give in faith, as I did at my door,Learn u to keep by faith, as God be still thy store,Learn u to lend by faith, as I did to the poor;Learn u to live, to give, to keep, to lend, to spend,That God in Christ, at day of death, may prove thy friend.

Jane L. Andrews, æt. 22.

How could we wish for her to stay below,When joys in heaven for her prepared?May we, like her, our passport have, and know,Assuredly, that we shall gain admittance there;Then will her joys be ours, and own her cry,—We are content to live, but we would rather die.

“Here lies the man Richard,And Mary his wife;Their surname was PritchardThey lived without strife;And the reason was plain,—They abounded in riches,They had no care or pain,And his wife wore the breeches.”

Martha Blewitt,of the Swan, Baythorn-End,of this Parish,buried May 7th, 1681.Was the wife of nine Husbandssuccessively, but the 9th outlived her.The Text to her Funeral Sermon was:—“Last of all the Woman died also.”

To the memory of Herbert George Anna, a third child, all born at one birth, the son and daughters of Samuel and Mary Lines, of this parish, who departed this life 30th of April, 1847, aged 3 days.

Weep not for me my mother dear,Rather be you glad;In this world our time was short,—The longer rest we have.

Here liesthe body of Richard Clarke,who died ----Aged -- years,Who lies here? Who do you think?Poor old Clarke—give him some drink.What! dead men drink? The reason why,—When he was alive he was always dry.And four of his children.

In Memory ofSmart Leithceulier, Esq.

A Gentleman of polite literature and elegant taste; an encourager of art and ingenious artists; a studious promoter of literary inquiries; a companion and friendof learned men; industriously versed in the science of antiquity; and richly possessed of the curious productions of Nature: but who modestly desired no other inscription on his tomb than what he had made the rule of his life:—

“To do justly—to love mercy—And to walk humbly with his God.”Born, November 3, 1701. Died without issue.August 27, 1760.

To the Memory ofThomas Hanse.

“Lord, thy grace is free,—why not for me?”

This man dying greatly in debt, and being a bankrupt, one of his creditors, being ruined by him, wrote under it:—

And the Lord answered and said,—“Because thy debts a’nt paid!”

J. F. Hefeall.

With long affliction I was sore oppressed,Till God in goodness kindly gave me rest;I left my widow’d wife and children dearTo His all gracious, providential care,Who said do thou alone depend—Who am the widow and the orphan’s friend.

“Who lists to se and knowe himselfe,May loke upon this glase,And vew the beaten pathe of dethe,Which he shall one day passe;Which way J. Rainford Kellingworth,With patient mind, have gone,—Whose body here, as death hath changed,Lies covered with this stone;When dust to dust is brought again,The earth she hath her owne,—This shall the lot of all men be,Before the trumpe be blowne!”April 17th, 1575.

To Sir Edward Denny.

“Learn, curious reader, ere thou pass,That once Sir Edward Denny wasA courtier of the chamber,A soldier of the fielde,—Whose tongue could never flatter,Whose heart could never yield!”

On a decayed monument in Horndon Church is the following inscription:—

“Take, gentle marble, to thy trust,And keep unmixed thissacred dust—Grow moist sometimes that I may seeThou weep’st in sympathy with me;And when, by him I here shall sleep,My ashes also safely keep—And from rude hands preserve us both, untilWe rise to Sion’s Mount from Horndon-on-the-Hill.”

Paul Whitehead, Esq.Of Twickenham, December, 1774.

“Unhallow’d hands, this urn forbear,No gems, nor Orient spoil,Lie here conceal’d, but what’s more rare,—Aheartthat knows no guile!”

On a brass plate in this church is the following inscription:—

“Before this tabernaculle lyeth buryed Thomas Greene, some tyme bayle of this towne, Margaret, and Margaret, his wyves—which Thomas dyed the 8th day of July, 1535. The which Thomas hath wylled a prest to syng in this church for the space of 20 years, for hym, his wyves, his children, and all men’s soules. And, moreover, he hath wylled an obyte, to be kept the 8th day of July, for the term of twenty years, for the soules aforesaid, and, at every tyme of the said obyte, bestowed 20s. of good lawful money of England.”

On the south wall are the following lines, ih memory of Anne, wife of William Napper, who died in 1584:—

In token of whose vertuous lyfe,And constant sacred love,And that her memory should remaine,And never hence remove,Her husband, in his tyme of lyfe,This monument did leave his wyfe.

This disease you ne’er heard tell on,—I died of eating too much mellon;Be careful, then, all you that feed—ISuffered because I was too greedy.

Here lies the body of Mary Ellis, daughter of Thomas Ellis, and Lydia, his wife, of this parish. She was a virgin of virtuous character, and most promising hopes. She died on the 3rd of June, 1609, agedone hundred and nineteen.

On Anne, daughter of Joseph Baynham,Died 16th Aug. 1632.

Shee had not spunn out Thirtie dayes,but God from paine took her to joyes;Let none their trust in worldly Bliss,All youth and age must come to This,but Manner how, place where, time when,Is known to God, but not to men;Watch, Pray, Repent, and sinne forsake,Lest, unprepared, Death thee should take,—Then happy Thou that so shall dye,To Live with God Eternalye.

In Memory of Robert Berkeley, Esq. who diedFebye2nd, 1690, aged 76 yeares.And Rebecca, his wife, who died Augustye16th, 1707,Aged 83. This monument was erectedby their most Dutiful and most obsequiousDaughter, Rebecca Berkeley.

My time was come! My days were spent!I was called—and away I went! ! !

On Thos. Turar and Mary, his wife. He was Master of the Company of Bakers.

Like to the baker’sovenis the grave,Wherein the bodyes of the faithful haveA setting in, and where they do remain,In hopes to rise and to bedrawnagain;Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead,Tho’ set likedoughthey shall be drawn likebread!

Ye witty mortals! as you’re passing by,Remark that near this monument doth lie,Centered in dust,Described thus:Two Husbands, two Wives,Two Sisters, two Brothers,Two Fathers, a Son,Two Daughters, two Mothers,A Grandfather, a Grandmother, a Granddaughter,An Uncle, and an Aunt—their Niece follow’d after!This catalogue of persons mentioned hereWas only five, and all from incest free!

I went and ’listed in the Tenth Hussars,And gallopped with them to the bloody wars;“Die for your sovereign—for your country die!”To earn such glory feeling rather shy,Snug I slipped home. But death soon sent me off,After a struggle with the hooping cough!

Here lies poor Charlotte,Who died no harlot;But in her virginity,Of the age nineteen,In this vicinity,Rare to be found or seen.

Here lies the Earl of Suffolk’s fool,Men call’d him Dicky Pearce,His folly serv’d to make folks laugh,When wit and mirth were scarce.Poor Dick, alas! is dead and gone!What signifies to cry?Dickeys enough are still behind,To laugh at by and by.Buried 1728.

Our bodies are like shoes, which off we cast,—Physic their coblers, and Death their last.

Mercye, God of my misdede;Ladye, help at my most neede;On a brass plate under theyre feete,Reye gracious I ha to Endles lyfe at thy gretedome, where alle Schalle apere, Hughe Norys Groe, andJohan, hys wyf, now dede in Grave and Buryed here;Yo P’yers desyringe therre soules for chere, thexday of July, the yere of oure Lorde God,mdcccccxxix.

This epitaph appears on a flat stone, with the effigies of a man and woman.

On Two Infants.

Two lovelier babes ye nare did seThan God A’mighty gaed to we,Bus the was o’ertaken we agur (ague) fits,And hare tha lies as dead as nits!

Here lieth, ready to start, in full hopes to save his distance,Timothy Turf, formerly Stud Groom to Sir Mamaduke Match’em, andLate Keeper of the Racing Stables on Cerney Downs:—ButWas beat out of the world on the 1st of April last, bythat inivincibleRockingham Death.N.B.—He lived and died an honest man.

“Here lies I and my three daughters,Killed by a drinking the Cheltenham waters;If we had stuck to Epsom salts,We’d not been a lying in these here vaults.”

To the Memory of Jeremiah Buck, Esq. died 1653.

J Intomb’d here lies a pillar of the State,—E Each good man’s friend, to th’ Poor compassionate,R Religion’s patron, just men’s sure defence,E Evil men’s terror, guard of innocence;M Matchless for virtues which still shine most bright,I Impartially to all he gave their right;A Alas! that few to heart do truly lay,H How righteous men from earth depart away.B By’s death we loose, but he much gain acquires,V Vnto his body rest: His soul aspiresC Celestial mansions where he, God on high,K Knows and enjoys to all eternity.

B By’s death we loose, but he much gain acquires,V Vnto his body rest: His soul aspiresC Celestial mansions where he, God on high,K Knows and enjoys to all eternity.

On Eleanor Freeman, æt. 21.

A Virgin blossom, in her MayOf youth and virtues, turned to clay,—Rich earth, accomplish’d with those graces,That adorn saints in heavenly places;Let not death boast his conquering power,She’ll rise a star that fell a flower.

Thomas Tyndale dyed the 28th of April, buried 31 May, 1571.

Ye see how death doth Spare no age nor Kynd,How I am lapt in Claye and dead you fynde,My Wife and Children lye here with me,No Gould, no friend, no strength, could ransome bee,The end of Vayne delighte and Ill Intente,The End of Care and Matter to repent,The End of faere for frynd and Worldly Wo,By Death we have; and of lyke thousand mo,And Death of Tymes in us hath made an End,So that nothing can ower Estate amend.Who would not be Content such Change to makeFor worldly things Eternal Life to take.

On a brass plate, let into the stone, is the following:—Johns Yate Lond. ex Vico Basing Lane Naroec Aldermar.Renatus 28 Iulii 1594. Coll. Em Cantab Olim Soc.S. Th. B.Inductus in hanc Eccl. vespijs Dominicæ in Albis 1628Mortalitatem exvit die 10 Jan Anno Doni 1668.Nodvs Iob rediens vt venerat ecce recessitRodmerton, quondam qui tibi pastor erat.Is, qvia, qvae solitvs neqvit ex ambone monereClamat et e tumvlo prædicat ista svo.Mors tva, mors Christi, fravs mondi, gloria cœliEt dolor inferni, svnt meditata tibi.Trvst not the world remember deth,And often think of Hell:Think often on the great rewardFor those that do live well.Repent, amend, then trvst in Christ,So thov in peace shalt dy;—And rest in bliss, and rise with IoyAnd raine eternally.

Engraved on the Coffin of Mr. Pitcher, a noted Ale-house keeper in Gloucestershire.

Stop mourning friends and shed a grateful tearUpon thy once loved Pitcher’s moving bier,He quits this world without regret or railing,Life’s full of pain—he always has been aleing.Resigned he fell contented with his lot,Convinced all Pitchers soon must go to Pot.

In memory of Katherine Purye, who died Dec. 1, 1604.Ao1604.Dece 1. Ætat. 67.Quæ defuncta jacet saxo tumulata sub illoBis Cathara, haud ficto nomine, dicta fuit.Nomen utrumque sonat mundam, puramque piamqEt vere nomen quod referebat, erat,Nam puram puro degebat pectore vitam,Pura fuit mundo, nunc mage pura Deo.—Πάντα καζαρα τοις καζαραιςOmnia pura puris,Tit. 1. ver. 15.She whom this stone doth quietly immureIn no feign’d way had twice the name ofPure:Pure, pious, clean, each name did signify,And truly was she what those names imply;For in pure paths, while yet she lived, she trod;Pure was she in this world, and now more pure with God.

She whom this stone doth quietly immureIn no feign’d way had twice the name ofPure:Pure, pious, clean, each name did signify,And truly was she what those names imply;For in pure paths, while yet she lived, she trod;Pure was she in this world, and now more pure with God.

In a vault underneath lie interred several of the Saunderses, late of this parish, particulars the last day will disclose.—Amen.

Here lies alas! long to be lamented, Benjamin Dobbins, Gent., who left his Friends sorrowing. Feb. 2, 1760. Aged 42.

Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire grenadier,Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer;Soldiers beware, from his untimely fall,And, when your’e hot, drink strong, or none at all.

“Severely afflicted—, yet, when most depressed,Resigned, he endured it as all for the best,Praised God for his goodness, both present and past;He yielded his spirit in peace at the last.“Let friend forbear to mourn and weep,While in the dust I sweetly sleep;This frailsome world I left behind,A crown of glory for to find.“While in this world I did remain,My latter days was grief and pain;But, when the Lord He thought it best,He took me into a place of rest.”

“Severely afflicted—, yet, when most depressed,Resigned, he endured it as all for the best,Praised God for his goodness, both present and past;He yielded his spirit in peace at the last.

“Let friend forbear to mourn and weep,While in the dust I sweetly sleep;This frailsome world I left behind,A crown of glory for to find.

“While in this world I did remain,My latter days was grief and pain;But, when the Lord He thought it best,He took me into a place of rest.”

Joseph Robins, Jany. 21, 1811.

The blustering Winds and raging seaHave tossed me to and froTho’ some have found their watery Grave,I am Anchored here below;Thus, at an Anchor safe I lie,With the surrounding Fleet,And hope one day we shall set sail,Our Saviour Christ to meet;My change I hope is for the best,—To live with Christ and be at rest.

William Cullum, d. 1841, aged 20.

Weep not for me, my tender parents dear,Taken from your care in early years;Oh! grieve not, the LORD’S will be done,—Your dutiful and affectionate son.

On Hannah, wife of Jeremiah Soffe, died 1832.

When I am dead and in my Grave,And all my Bones are Rotten.This when you see, Remember me,Or lest I should be forgotten.

Thomas Burnett.1842.

At midnight he was called awayFrom his employment on the sea,—Altho’ his warning was but short,We hope he’s reached the heavenly port.

On an Exciseman.

No Supervisor’s check he fears,Now, no commissioner obeys;He’s free from cares, entreaties, tears,And all the heavenly orb surveys.

To the Memory of Robert Dyer, who was drowned,Aged 19.

Ah! cruel death that would not spareA loving husband was so dear;This world he left, and me behind,The world to try, and friends to find.

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