Robert Master, Undertaker.
Here lies Bob Master. Faith! t'was very hardTo take away an honest Robin's breath.Yes, surely Robin was full well preparedFor 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 petition 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 reposeLies William Rich of Lydeard Close.Eight wives he had yet none surviveAnd likewise children eight times five,From whom an issue vast did pourOf great grandchildren five times four.Rich born, rich bred, yet Fate adverseHis wealth and fortune did reverse.He lived and died immensely poorJuly 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 townAnd travelled many a year.Till age and death have brought me downTo 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 treesIs buried the body of Solomon Pease.But here in this hole lies only his podHis soul is shelled out and gone up to God.
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 tenAnd saved a dinner by it.
Here lies the body of Sarah SextonShe 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 tombSome 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 hearseLies the subject of all verse;Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.Death ere thou hast slain anotherWise and fair and good as sheTime 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 stateArrived at last at Heaven's gate.
(After an absence of years and having fallen out with her he added these two lines.)
"But Peter met her with a clubAnd knocked her back to Beelzebub."
Beneath this stone in hopes of Zion,Doeth lay the landlord of the Lion.His son keeps in the business stillResigned unto His heavenly will.
John Palfryman who is buried hereWas aged four and twenty years.And near this place his Mother liesLikewise his father when he dies.
Salisbury.
Farewell vain world I've had enough of thee,And value not what thou canst say of me;Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear,All's one to me, my head lies quiet here;What faults thou'st seen in me take care to shunAnd look at home, there's something to be done
Like a tender rose-tree was my spouse to me.Her offspring plucked too long deprived of life is she.Three went before, her life went with the sixth:I stay with the three our sorrows for to mix,Till Christ our only hope our joys doth fix.
Shetford Churchyard.
My grandfather was buried here,My cousin Jane and two uncles, dear.My father perished with inflammation of the eyes.My sister dropped dead in a nunnery.But the reason why I am here interred according to my thinking,Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,If therefore, good Christians, you wish to live longDon't drink to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.
Beneath this monumental stoneLies half a ton of flesh and bone.
Shakspeare.
Good friends for Jesus' sake forbearTo stir the dust enclosed here.Blest be the man who spares these stonesAnd cursed be he who moves my bones.
Nova Scotia.
Here lies old twenty five per cent.The more he had the more he lent.The more he had the more he craved,Great God, can his poor soul be saved?
Mt. Park Cemetery, Montreal.
Fred McKernan, Aged three years.
Johnie wants to know where do you now stayOr with whom do you now play,Or where do you roam?For the little iron cotYour poor mother boughtStill waits for you at home.
Folkstone.
Mrs David Stuart
For twenty years and eight I lived a maiden's lifeAnd five and thirty years I was a married wife.And in that space of time eight children I did bear,Four sons, four daughters who I ever loved most dear;Three of that number as the Scriptures run,Preached up the way to Heaven—and Hell to shun.
Maiden Lillard,
A young Scotch woman, who at the battle of Ancrum, 1545, distinguished herself by her extraordinary valor.
Fair Maiden Lillard lies under this sod.Little was her statue but great was her fame.Upon the English loons she laid many thumps,And when her legs were cut off she fought upon her stumps.
Here lies a man who all his mortal lifeSpent mending clocks, but could not mend his wife.The larum of his bell was ne'er so shrillAs was her tongue, aye, clacking like a mill.But now he's gone—oh whither none can tellBut hope beyond the sound of Matty's bell.
Paris.
Adah Isaac Menkin.
"Thou knowest."
Lord Byron's epitaph on his Newfoundland dog at Newstead.
"To mark a friend's remainsThese stones arise.I never knew but oneAnd here he lies."
Manchester, England.
Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,His age was five times ten.He ne'er did good nor ever wouldHad he lived as long again.
Beneath these stones repose the bones of Theodosious Grimm.
He took his beer from year to year
And then the bier took him.
(On a butcher whose name was Lamb.)
Beneath this stone lies Lamb asleep,Who died a Lamb who lived a sheep.Many a lamb and sheep he slaughteredBut cruel Death the scene has altered.
Rose Clifford.
This tomb doth here enclose the world's most beauteous Rose.
Here lies John Quebeccaprecentor to My Lord the King.
When he is admitted to the choir of angels whose society he will embellish and where he will distinguish himself by his powers of song—God shall say to the angels—
Cease ye calves! and let me hearJohn Quebecca, the precentor ofMy Lord the King.
St. Botolph's.
A traveller lies here at restWho life's rough ocean tossed on.His many virtues all expressedThus simply—"I'm from Boston."
St. Clair, Canada.
On a brickmaker.
Keep death and judgment always in your eyeOr else the devil off with you will flyAnd in his kiln with burning brimstone ever fry.If you neglect the narrow road to seekChrist will respect you like a half burned brick.
Patrick Bay, Innholder.
Killed by an ignorant Physician.Not Fate or Death but doctor RoweAdvanced to give the deadly blowThat smote me to the shades below.Had Death alone approached too nigh,Had Fate or Nature bid me die,I must have borne it patiently.
But to be robbed of life and easeBy such infernal quacks as theseAnd pay, beside their modest fees!Now folks that travel by this way,Pointing toward my tomb shall say,"There lies the bones of Patrick Bay—Who ne'er a cheerful glass denied,All force of arms, and grog defied,Yet by a vile Jack Pudding died."
John ScottBrewer.
Poor John Scott is buried here
Tho' once he was both hale and stout.
Death stretched him on his bitter bier,
In another world he hops about.
Received of Philip Hardinghis borrowed earth July 4th 1673.
The Duke of Norfolk, a great whist player.
(By Sheridan.)
Here lies England's premier baron,Patiently awaiting the last trump.
Here lies a Cardinal who wrought
Both good and evil in his time.
The good he did was good for naught
Not so the evil—that was prime.
Elihu Yale, the founder of Yale College at New Haven, lies buried in Wrenham, Wales. His monument bears this inscription:
Born in America, in Europe bredIn Africa traveled in Asia wed,Where long he lived and thrivedAnd at London died.Much good, some ill he did so hope all's evenAnd his soul through mercy is gone to Heaven.You that survive and read this tale take care,For this most certain event to prepare;Where blest in peace the actions of the justSmell sweet and blossom in the silent dust.