Franklin White.
Here lies Frank a shining lightWhose name, life, actions all were white.
Reader pass on. Don't waste your timeOn bad biography and bitter rhyme.For what I am this crumbling clay assures,And what I was is no affair of yours.
God works a wonder now and then,He though a lawyer was an honest man.
Dr. Somerby.
At length a grave spots for him provided,Where all through him so many of us died did.
Early, bright, chaste as morning dew,She sparkled, was exalted and went to heaven.
Norfolk.
Lieut. Nathan Davis.Died in 1781.
Death is a debt that's justly due,That I have paid and so must you.
Elizabeth, wife of Nathan Davis.Died 1786.
This debt I owe is justly due,And I am come to sleep with you.
Skaneateles.
Underneath this pile of stonesLie's all thats left of Sally Jones.Her name was Lord it was not Jones.But Jones was used to ryme with stones.
Mary Drummond Smith.
Neuralgia worked on Mrs. Smith'Till neath the sod it laid her.She was a worthy MethodistAnd served as a crusader.
Wyoming County.
She was in health at 11.30a. m.And left for Heaven at 3.30p. m.
East Thompson.
Here lies one who never sacrificed his reason to superstitious God, nor ever believed that Jonah swallowed the whale.
New York City.
Trinity Churchyard.1767.
Tho' Boreas' blasts and boisterous wavesHave tossed me to and fro,In spite of both by God's decreeI harbor here below;Where I do now at anchor rideWith many of our fleet,Yet once again I must set sail,My Admiral Christ to meet.
Alden White.
Grim death took me without any warning,I was well one day, and stone dead next morning.
Madeline White.
God takes the good too good on earth to stay,God leaves the bad too bad to take away.
Sarah Thomas is dead and that's enoughThe candle is out and so is the snuffHer soul is in Heaven you need not fearAnd all that's left is buried here.
Ithaca.
The pale consumption gave the mortal blow.The fate was certain although the event was slow.
While on earth my knee was lame,I had to nurse and heed it.But now I'm at a better place,Where I don't even need it.
Her blooming cheeks were no defenceAgainst the scarlet fever.In five day's time she was cut down,To dwell with Christ forever.
Moses White.
His grand excellence was that he was genuine.
Father and Mother and IChoose to be buried asunder.Father and Mother here,And I buried yonder.
Julia King.
I go to meet my brother.
John Daleand his two wives.
A period's come to all their toilsome lives,The good man's quiet—still are both his wives.
Greenwood.
Grieve not for me my Harriet dearFor I am better off,You know what were my sufferingsAnd what a dreadful cough.
David Stuart
A loving father and companion,Follow me as I have—Jesus.
Orange County.
Underneath this stone doeth lieAs much virtue as could die;Which when alive did vigor giveTo as much of beauty as could live.
Amos Judge(Coal dealer.)
He gave full weight to all t'is saidAnd did it without vaunting;When in the ballance he is weighedHe will not be found wanting.
William Newhall.
He 'rose in health at early dawnTo hail the new born year:Before the evening shade came onHe finished his career.
He was a man of invention greatAbove all who he lived nigh;But he could not invent to liveWhen God called him to die.
A thousand ways cut short our days,None are exempt from death.A honey-bee by stinging meDid stop my mortal breath.
He got a fish bone in his throatAnd then he sang an angel's note.
Orange County.
Here lies a kind and loving wife,A tender nursing mother;A neighbor free from brawl and strife,A pattern for all others.
To the memory ofSusan Mum.
Silence is wisdom.
This corpseisPhebe Thorps.
Neal Keven.
His accounts were found square to a cent.
A Watch-maker's Epitaph
Copied from a tomb-stone in Wales by old Sexton Brown, the once famous sexton of Grace Church, N. Y.
Here lies in a horizontal position the outside case of George Rutlege watch-maker, whose abilities in that line were an honor to his profession.
Integrity was the main-spring of all the actions of his life. Humane, honest and industrious his hands never stopped until they had relieved distress.
He had the art of disposing of his time in such a way that he never went wrong except when set agoing by persons who did not know his key, and even then was easily set right again.
He departed this life wound up in the hope of being taken in hand by his Maker, thoroughly cleaned, regulated and repaired and set going in the world to come.
Philadelphia.
Christ's Churchyard.
(Written by himself when twenty-three years of age.)
The body of Benjamen Franklin, printer like the cover of an old book its contents torn out and stripped of its lettering and gilding, lies here food for worms.
Yet the work itself shall not be lost for it will, as he believed, appear once more in a new and more beautiful edition corrected and amended by the author.
Carved on a little stone in a Maryland churchyard, after the name of the dead.
"He held the pall at the funeral of Shakspeare."
Bayfield, Miss.
(On a child struck by lightning.)
Struck by thunder.
Stranger pause my tale attend,And learn the cause of Hannah's end.Across the world the wind did blow,She ketched a cold that laid her low.We shed a lot of tears 'tis true,But life is short—aged 82.
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.
Alexandria, Va.
To the memory of a female stranger whoes mortal sufferings ended Oct. 14th 1816.
How valued, how loved once, avails thee notTo whom related, or by whom begot.A heap of dust alone remains of thee,Tis all thou art and all the proud shall be.
Peter Letig was his name,Heaven I hope his station,Baltimore was his dwelling placeAnd Christ is his salvation.
The milk of human kindness was my own dear cherub wifeI'll never find another one as good in all my life.
She bloomed, she blossomed, she decayed,And under this tree her body we laid.
Mr. James Danner, late of Louisville, having been laid by the side of his four wives, received this touching epitaph:
An excellent husband was this Mr. Danner,He lived in a thoroughly honorable manner.
He may have had troubles,But they burst like bubbles,
He's at peace, now with Mary, Jane, Susan and Hannah.
Maryland.
Henrietta thou was mild and lovely,Gentle as a summer breeze;Pleasant as the air of evening,When it floats among the trees.With triumph on her tongueWith radiance on her brow,She passed to that exalted throngAnd shares their glory now.
They were two loving sisters,Who in this dust do lie.The very day Annie was buriedElizabeth did die.
My father and mother were both insaneI inherited the terrible stain.My grandfather, grandmother, aunts and unclesWere lunatics all, and yet died of carbuncles.
Here lies the bones of David Jones,Laid both dead and dumb.He read a law and plead a causeBut died from drinking rum.
Over the grave of a brave engineer.
Until the brakes are turned on time,Life's throttle-valve shut down,He works to pilot in the crewThat wears the martyr's crown.On schedule time, on upper gradeAlong the homeward section,He lands his train in God's roundhouseThe morn of resurrection.His time is full, no wages docked,His name on God's pay roll,And transportation through to HeavenA free pass for his soul.
Elizabeth Scott lies buried here.She was born Nov 20th 1785,according to the best of her recollection.
Tennessee.
She lived a life of virtue and died of the cholera morbus, caused by eating green fruit in hope of a blessed immortality.
Reader, go thou and do likewise.
Sacred to the memory of Henry Harris who died from a kick by a colt in his bowells.
Peacable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, respected by all who knew him—gone to the world where horses don't kick, where sorrow and weeping are no more.
Here lies my twins as dead as nitsOne died of fever the other of fits.
Some have children others none,Here lies the mother of twenty one.
Yazoo City.
Here lie two grandsons ofJohn Hancock, first signer of theDeclaration of Independence.(Their names are respectively Geo. M.and John H. Hancock)and their eminence hangs ontheir having had a grandfather.
Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,
Lies Arabella Young,
Who on the twenty first of May
Began to hold her tongue.
Ebenezer Dockwood aged forty seven,A miser and a hypocrite and never went to Heaven.
Within this grave do lie.Back to back my wife and I.When the last trump the air shall fill,If she gets up I'll just lie still.
Mammy and I together lived,Just three years and a half.She went first, I followed next,The cow before the calf.
A man had cremated four wives, and the ashes, kept in four urns, being overturned and fallen together, were buried at last and had this droll inscription:
Stranger pause and shed a tear,For Mary Jane lies buried here.Mingled in a most surprising mannerWith Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.
Sacred to the memoryOf Miss Martha Grimm.She was so very spare within,She burst the outward shell of sinAnd hatched herself a cherubim.
No doctor ever physicked me,Was never near my side.But when fever came I thought of the name,And that was enough—I died.
This is to the memory of Ellen Hill,A woman who would always have her will.She snubbed her husband but she made good breadYet on the whole he's rather glad she's dead.She whipped her children and she drank her gin,Whipped virtue out and whipped the devil in.May all such women go to some great foldWhere they through all eternity may scold.
Sacred to the memory of William Skaradon who came to his death by being shot with a Colts revolver, one of the old kind brass mounted and of such is the kingdom of heaven.
Timothy Egan
He heard the angels calling him,From the celestial shore.He flopped his wings and away he flewTo make one angel more.
Here lies the body of Mary FordWe hope her soul is with the Lord.But if for tophet she's changed this life,Better be there than J. Ford's wife.
A zealous locksmith died of late,And did not enter Heaven's gate.But stood without and would not knockBecause he meant to pick the lock.
Ashes to ashes dust to dust,Here lies George Emery I trust.And when the trump blows louder and louderHe'll rise a box of Emery powder.
There was a man who died of late,Whom angels did impatient waitWith outstretched arms and smiles of loveTo take him up to the realms above.While hovering 'round the lower skiesStill disputing for the prize,The devil slipped in like a weasilAnd down to Hell he took old Kezle.
Here lies interred Priscilla BirdWho sang on earth till sixty two.Now up on high above the skyNo doubt she sings like sixty—too.
Here lies Jane Smith,Wife of Thomas Smith, Marble Cutter.
This monument was erected by her husband as a tribute to her memory and a specimen of his work.
Monuments of this same style are two hundred and fifty dollars.
A Cricket Player's Epitaph.
In the pride of his manhood he heard the last call,Though first in the field where his feet pressed the sod.He hath gained his last wicket and thrown his last ball,To join in the choir 'round the throne of his God.
Here lies the body of Susan LowderWho burst while drinking aSedlitpowder.Called from this world to her heavenly restShe should have waited till it effervesced.
A man of letters it seems was he;The college made him L.L. D.The Order a P. G. W. C.Grim death has given him the G. B.And may his ashes R. I. P.
After cremation.
And this is all that's left of theeThou fairest of earth's daughters.Only four pounds of ashes whiteOut of two hundred and three quarters.
James Payn, the novelist, speaks of this epitaph as "pathetic and expressive."
Here lies an old woman who always was tired,For she lived in a house where help was not hired;And her last words on earth were,Dear friends I am goingWhere no washing is done nor sweeping or sewing.Where all things will be exact to my wishes,For where there's no eating there's no washing of dishes.I'll be where loud anthems are constantly ringingBut having no voice I shall get clear of singing.She folded her hands with her latest endeavorAnd sighing she whispered sweet nothing forever.
Alpha WhiteWeight 309 lbs.
Open wide ye golden gatesThat lead to the heavenly shore.Our father suffered in passing throughAnd mother weighs much more.
The winter snow congealed his formBut now we know our Uncle's warm.
Our papa dear has gone to HeavenTo make arrangements for eleven.
Epitaph on a dentist.
View this gravestone with gravityHe is filling his last cavity.
Here lies Dodge, who dodged all goodAnd dodged a deal of evil.But after dodging all he couldHe could not dodge the devil.
On the tombstone of a disagreeable old man.
"Deeply regretted by all who never knew him."
Here lies Jim Shaw, attorney-at-law.When he died the devil cried,Give me your paw, Jim Shaw,Attorney at law.
Here lies my wife a sad slatterned shrewIf I said I regretted her I should lie too.
Here lies Ann Mann.She lived an old maidBut died an old Mann.
Here lies Ned Hyde because he died.If it had been his sisterWe should not have missed her.But would rather it had been his fatherOr for the good of the nationThe whole generation.
On a well-known pill doctor.
His virtues and his pills are so well knownThat envy can't confine them under stone.
Throughout his life he kneaded breadAnd deemed it quite a bore.But now six feet beneath earth's crustHe needeth bread no more.
Listen, Mother, Aunt and meWere killed, here we be.We should not had time to missleHad they blown the engine whistle.
Here lies the remains ofJohn Hall grocer.
The world is not worth a figI have goodraisinsfor saying so.
Amanda Lowe.
She loved me and my grandchildren reverenced her. She bathed my feet and kept my socks well darned.
A bird, a man, a loaded gun.No bird, dead man, thy will be done.
At St. Mary le Bone.
Queen Elizabeth.
(By Laureate Skelton.)
Fame blow aloud, and to the world proclaim,There never ruled such a royal dame!The word of God was ever her delight,In it she meditated day and night.Spain's rod, Rome's ruin, Netherland's relief,Earth's joy, England's gem, world's wonder,Nature's chief.She was and is, what can there more be said,On earth the chief, in Heaven the second made.
In Harrow Churchyard.
(Ascribed to Lord Byron.)
Beneath these green trees rising to the skies,The planter of them, Isaac Greentree lies!A time shall come when these green trees shall fall,And Isaac Greentree rise above them all.
Surrey, England.
The Lord was good I was lopping off wood
And down fell from a tree.
I met with a check that broke my neck
And so God lopped off me.
Here lies John Higley whose father and mother were drowned in their passage from America. Had they both lived they would have been buried here.
Aberdeen, Scotland.
Here lies Martin Elmrod.Have mercy on my soul, good GodAs I would do were I Lord GodAnd you were Martin Elmrod.
Here lies Thomas SmithAnd what is somewhat rareish,He was born bred and hangedIn this e'er parish.
Here I lie at the chancel doorAnd I lie here because I am poor;For the farther in the more you pay,But here I lie as warm as they.
Pickering Churchyard.
Death comes to all, none can resist his dartAt his command the dearest friends must part.A mournful widow who this truth doth ownIn gratitude erects this humble stone.
Childwell, England.
Here lies the body of
John Smith.
Buried in the cloistersIf he don't jump at the last trump,Call, Oysters!
England.
If Heaven be pleased when sinners cease to sin,If Hell be pleased when sinners enter in,If earth be pleased when ridded of a knave,Then all are pleased for Coleman's in his grave.
Samuel Gardner was blind in one eye and in a moment of confusion he stepped out of a receiving and discharging door in one of the warehouses into the ineffable glories of the celestial sphere.
To the memory of Ric Richards who by a gangrene first lost a toe, then a leg and lastly his life.
Ah cruel Death to make three meals of one,To taste and eat, and eat till all was gone.But know thou tyrant when the trump shall call,He'll find his feet, and stand where thou shalt fall.
Poet & Shoemaker.Joseph Blackett.
Stranger behold interred togetherThe lords of learning and of leather.Poor Joe is gone but left hisawlYou'll find his relics in a stall.His works were neat and often foundWell stitched and with morocco bound.Tread lightly where the bard is laid;He cannot mend the shoe he made.Yet he is happy in his holeWith verse immortal as his soul;But still to business he held fastAnd stuck to Pheabus to thelast.Then who shall say so good a fellowWas only leather and prunello?For character he did not lack itAnd 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.