Quaint Epitaphs online

. (page 2 of 3)
Online LibraryVariousQuaint Epitaphs → online text (page 2 of 3)
Font size
QR-code for this ebook


"He held the pall at the funeral of Shakspeare."


(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.


To the memory of a female stranger whoes mortal sufferings ended Oct.
14th 1816.

How valued, how loved once, avails thee not
To 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 place
And Christ is his salvation.

The milk of human kindness was my own dear cherub wife
I'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.


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 tongue
With radiance on her brow,
She passed to that exalted throng
And shares their glory now.

They were two loving sisters,
Who in this dust do lie.
The very day Annie was buried
Elizabeth did die.

My father and mother were both insane
I inherited the terrible stain.
My grandfather, grandmother, aunts and uncles
Were 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 cause
But 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 crew
That wears the martyr's crown.
On schedule time, on upper grade
Along the homeward section,
He lands his train in God's roundhouse
The morn of resurrection.
His time is full, no wages docked,
His name on God's pay roll,
And transportation through to Heaven
A free pass for his soul.

Elizabeth Scott lies buried here.
She was born Nov 20th 1785,
according to the best of her recollection.


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 nits
One died of fever the other of fits.

Some have children others none,
Here lies the mother of twenty one.


Here lie two grandsons of
John Hancock, first signer of the
Declaration of Independence.
(Their names are respectively Geo. M.
and John H. Hancock)
and their eminence hangs on
their 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

Stranger pause and shed a tear,
For Mary Jane lies buried here.
Mingled in a most surprising manner
With Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.

Sacred to the memory
Of Miss Martha Grimm.
She was so very spare within,
She burst the outward shell of sin
And 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 bread
Yet 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 fold
Where 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 flew
To make one angel more.

Here lies the body of Mary Ford
We 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 knock
Because 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 louder
He'll rise a box of Emery powder.

There was a man who died of late,
Whom angels did impatient wait
With outstretched arms and smiles of love
To take him up to the realms above.
While hovering 'round the lower skies
Still disputing for the prize,
The devil slipped in like a weasil
And down to Hell he took old Kezle.

Here lies interred Priscilla Bird
Who sang on earth till sixty two.
Now up on high above the sky
No 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 Lowder
Who burst while drinking a _Sedlit_ powder.
Called from this world to her heavenly rest
She 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 thee
Thou fairest of earth's daughters.
Only four pounds of ashes white
Out of two hundred and three quarters.

James Payn, the novelist, speaks of this epitaph as "pathetic and

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 going
Where 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 ringing
But having no voice I shall get clear of singing.
She folded her hands with her latest endeavor
And sighing she whispered sweet nothing forever.

Alpha White
Weight 309 lbs.

Open wide ye golden gates
That lead to the heavenly shore.
Our father suffered in passing through
And mother weighs much more.

The winter snow congealed his form
But now we know our Uncle's warm.

Our papa dear has gone to Heaven
To make arrangements for eleven.

Epitaph on a dentist.

View this gravestone with gravity
He is filling his last cavity.

Here lies Dodge, who dodged all good
And dodged a deal of evil.
But after dodging all he could
He 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 shrew
If I said I regretted her I should lie too.

Here lies Ann Mann.
She lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.

Here lies Ned Hyde because he died.
If it had been his sister
We should not have missed her.
But would rather it had been his father
Or for the good of the nation
The whole generation.

On a well-known pill doctor.

His virtues and his pills are so well known
That envy can't confine them under stone.

Throughout his life he kneaded bread
And deemed it quite a bore.
But now six feet beneath earth's crust
He needeth bread no more.

Listen, Mother, Aunt and me
Were killed, here we be.
We should not had time to missle
Had they blown the engine whistle.

Here lies the remains of
John Hall grocer.

The world is not worth a fig
I have good _raisins_ for 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.



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.


(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.


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 lies Martin Elmrod.
Have mercy on my soul, good God
As I would do were I Lord God
And you were Martin Elmrod.

Here lies Thomas Smith
And what is somewhat rareish,
He was born bred and hanged
In this e'er parish.

Here I lie at the chancel door
And I lie here because I am poor;
For the farther in the more you pay,
But here I lie as warm as they.


Death comes to all, none can resist his dart
At his command the dearest friends must part.
A mournful widow who this truth doth own
In gratitude erects this humble stone.


Here lies the body of
John Smith.
Buried in the cloisters
If he don't jump at the last trump,
Call, Oysters!


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 together
The lords of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone but left his _awl_
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat and often found
Well 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 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 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
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.


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.


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 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 ten
And saved a dinner by it.

Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton
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 hearse
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.


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.)

"But Peter met her with a club
And 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 still
Resigned unto His heavenly will.

John Palfryman who is buried here
Was aged four and twenty years.
And near this place his Mother lies
Likewise his father when he dies.


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 shun
And 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.


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 long
Don't drink to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.

Beneath this monumental stone
Lies half a ton of flesh and bone.


Good friends for Jesus' sake forbear
To stir the dust enclosed here.
Blest be the man who spares these stones
And cursed be he who moves my bones.


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?


Fred McKernan, Aged three years.

Johnie wants to know where do you now stay
Or with whom do you now play,
Or where do you roam?
For the little iron cot
Your poor mother bought
Still waits for you at home.


Mrs David Stuart

For twenty years and eight I lived a maiden's life
And 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 life
Spent mending clocks, but could not mend his wife.
The larum of his bell was ne'er so shrill
As was her tongue, aye, clacking like a mill.
But now he's gone - oh whither none can tell
But hope beyond the sound of Matty's bell.


Adah Isaac Menkin.

"Thou knowest."

Lord Byron's epitaph on his Newfoundland dog at Newstead.

"To mark a friend's remains
These stones arise.
I never knew but one
And here he lies."


Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,
His age was five times ten.
He ne'er did good nor ever would
Had 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 slaughtered
But cruel Death the scene has altered.

Rose Clifford.

This tomb doth here enclose the world's most beauteous Rose.

Here lies John Quebecca
precentor 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 hear
John Quebecca, the precentor of
My Lord the King.


A traveller lies here at rest
Who life's rough ocean tossed on.
His many virtues all expressed
Thus simply - "_I'm from Boston_."


On a brickmaker.

Keep death and judgment always in your eye
Or else the devil off with you will fly
And in his kiln with burning brimstone ever fry.
If you neglect the narrow road to seek
Christ will respect you like a half burned brick.

Patrick Bay, Innholder.

Killed by an ignorant Physician.
Not Fate or Death but doctor Rowe
Advanced to give the deadly blow
That 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 ease
By such infernal quacks as these
And 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 Scott

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 Harding
his 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 bred
In Africa traveled in Asia wed,
Where long he lived and thrived
And at London died.


Online LibraryVariousQuaint Epitaphs → online text (page 2 of 3)