Wiltshire.

John Robinson Hunter,Aged 30.

He lived; and diedUnplaced, unpensioned—No man’s heirOr 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?”

He lived; and diedUnplaced, unpensioned—No man’s heirOr 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?”

“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 resignThe Creator’s nursing protection be thine.So shall each perspiring æther 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.

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.

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

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 livedJust two years and a half;She went first, I followed next,The cow before the calf.

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 murdererI hope will see my soul in heaven shine.

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.

Richard Philpots.

To tell a merry or a wonderous taleOver 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.”

“C. Bede.”

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 leftthis hereworld, and is gone tothat there.

Here lies the body of poorFrank Row,Parish clerk, and grave-stone cutter;And this is writ to let you know,WhatFrankfor others us’d to do,Is now forFrankdone by another.

On a Marine Officer.

Here lies, retired from busy scenes,A first lieutenant of marines,Who lately lived in gay contentOn board the brave shipDiligent.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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

All you that come our grave to seeA moment pause and think,How we are in eternityAnd you are on the brink.

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.

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

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

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 whyThat 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.

Inscription.

Here lies John Smithwho was shot by Col.Buchan and the lairdof Lee. Feb. 1685.For his adherence to theword of God and Scotland’s covenanted w-ork of reformation,Rev. 12, ii. Erected in theyear 1731.

Epitaph.

When proud apostatesdid abjure Scotland’sreformation pure Andfill’d this land with perjury and all sorts of In-iquity Such as would notwith them comply They persecute with hue andcry. I in the flightwas overtane And for the truth by themwas slain.

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 lentThan was good Grame of truth and hardiment.

Here lyes a man, who all his mortal lifePast mending clocks but could not mend hys wyfe.The ‘larum of his bell was ne’er sae shrillAs 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 SpeirDumfreise—Pipier,Young John?—Fy Fy.Old John?—Ay Ay.

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 McPhersonWas a wonderful person,He was six feet twoWithout his shoe,And he was slewAt Waterloo.

Here lies Donald and his wifeJanet 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 higherHe 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.

On a drunken Cobbler.

Enclosed within this narrow stallLies one who was a friend toawl.He saved badsolesfrom getting worse,But damned his own without remorse.And tho’ a drunken life he passed,Yet saved hissoulbymending at the last.

William Rymour.

Through Christ, T’me not inferiourTo William the Conqueror.—Rom. 8, 37. (! !)

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 sheerHad better parts, nor he that’s bur’yd here.

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.

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

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

If modesty commend a wifeAnd Providence a mother,Grave chastity a widow’s life,We’ll not find such anotherIn 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 yearsHe’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 lastMay wun frae Death a canny cast.

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

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.

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 seenEight mighty kings of Scotland and a Queen;Thrice did I see old Pulacy pulled down,And thrice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.

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

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.

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 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.

Ibowled, Istruck, Icaught, Istopt,Sure life’s a game of cricket;Iblock’dwith care, with caution popp’d,Yet Death has hit mywicket.

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 nowone Footi’ th’ grave.

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune inHorse-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 storeOf 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.

Death, at once, spent all his storeOf 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 goodWhich was made of wood,But who’ll say so of t’other?

On John Death.

Here lies John Death, the very sameThat 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 Deathwere caused by gaming.

Clarissa reign’d theQueenofHearts,Likesparkling Diamondswere her eyes;But through theKnaveofClubs, false arts,Here bedded by aSpadeshe 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 BroughtMans Sôule from Hell;Have Mercy of the Sôuleof 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 thenHe Eat, and drank, and smôked 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 sayWhich 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 shêll,If he had any soûl 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 JohnAnd whisper’d in his ear,You must die John,D’ye hear?Quoth John to DeathThe news is bad.No matter, quoth Death,I’ve said.

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

Quoth John to DeathThe 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 twainThy thread. Why did’st not make it whole again?

To a Magistrate’s Widow.

Her husband died, and while she triedTo 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 fedWoman 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 ManWho 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 boreTo this his inn, where, as they say,They leave him till another day.

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 boreTo 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 awayAnd 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 thumpRight 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 DeathTo Nature—“quick, no humming,”She sought the man who lies beneath,And answered, “Death, he’s Cumming.”

On Sir Philip Sidney.

Englandhath his body, for she it fed,Netherlandhis blood, in her defence shed;TheHeavenshath his soul,TheArtshave his fame,TheSoldierhis grief,TheWorldhis good name.

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