Devonshire.
STOKE FLEMING.
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 praise
Which above in the rhymes may be seen?
But ’tis not impossible, since the stone says
She had not reached the age of thirteen!
LYDFORD.
“Here lies, in a horizontal position,
the outside case of
George Routleigh, Watchmaker,
whose abilities in that line were an honour to his
profession.
Integrity was the mainspring, and prudence the regulator
of all the actions of his life;
Humane, generous, and liberal, his hand never stopped
till he had relieved distress:
So nicely regulated was his movements,
that he never went wrong,
except when set a-going
by people who did not know his key:
Even then he was easily set right again.
He had the art of disposing of his Time,
so well,
That his hours glided away in one
continual round of pleasure and delight,
Till an unlucky moment put a period to his existence.
He departed this life November 14, 1802,
aged 57, wound up,
in hopes of being taken in hand by his Maker:
and of being thoroughly cleaned, repaired, and set a-going
for the world to come.”
TAVISTOCK.
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.”
KINGSWEAR.
Vos qui ici venez
Pur l’alme Philip priez,
Trente jours de pardon
Serra vostre guerdon.
KING’S TEIGNTON.
On Richard Adlam.
Richardus Adlam hujus ecclesiæ Vicarius obit
Feb. 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 lye
Thy triumphs o’er this Sacred Calvary,
Till some just Nemesis avenge our cause,
And force this kill-priest to revere good laws!”
EXETER.
Billeted here by death
In quarters I remain,
When the last trumpet sounds,
I’ll rise and march again.
KINGSBRIDGE.
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!
BIDEFORD.
“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.”
MILTON ABBOT.
To Bartholomew Doidge—And Joan his wife.
Joan was buried the 1st day of Feby.’ 1681.
Bartholomew was buried the 12th day of Feby.’ 1681.
“She first deceas’d—he a little try’d
“To live without her—lik’d it not, and died.”
AULIS-COMBE.
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.
MAKER.
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.
CREDITON.
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 not
Put 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 am
What thou must be; was what thou art the same;
Then pray for me, ere you go whence ye came.
LYDFORD.
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 ye judgment day.
Then shall I rise, in shining glory bright,
To meet my Lord with comfort and delight.
BRENT-TOR.
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 dying weal?[The last word was obliterated.]
WHITECHURCH.
John Spry and Margaret his wife.
1738.
In a good old age,
By death we did fall,
And here we must lie
Until Christ doth call.
Gregory Nicholas. 1840.
—Sleep here awhile, Thou Dearest
Part of me, and in a little while I’ll
Come and sleep with thee.
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.”
TIVERTON.
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.
WHITCHURCH.
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’d
And lifeless the form that manfully mov’d,
The clods of the valley encompass his head,
This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead.
Dorsetshire.
WIMBORNE.
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 breath
Was 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.
EAST KNOWLE TURNPIKE.
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.
WYKE.
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.
LILLINGTON.
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 readest not.
DORCHESTER.
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.
SILTON.
Here lies a piece of Christ—
a star in dust;
A vein of gold—a china dish,
that must—
Be used in Heaven, when God
shall feast the just.
Durham.
QUARRINGTON.
To the memory of Thomas Bouchier, dated 1635.
The petterne of conjugale love, the rare
Mirroure of father’s care;
Candid to all, his ev’ry action penn’d
The copy of a frend,
His last words best, a glorious eve (they say)
Foretells a glorious day,
Erected and composed with teares by his pensive
sonne, 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.”