MORTUARY PUNS.
Peter Comestor, whom the following epitaph represents as speaking, was the author of a Commentary on the Scriptures. He died in 1198:—
ON A YOUTH WHO DIED FOR LOVE OF MOLLY STONE.
Molle fuit saxum, saxum, O! si Molle fuisset,
Non foret hic subter, sed super esset ei.
Luttrell wrote the following on a man who was run over by an omnibus:—
Killed by an omnibus! Why not?
So quick a death a boon is:
Let not his friends lament his lot—
Mors omnibus communis.
WILLIAM MORE, STEPNEY CHURCHYARD.
Here lies one More, and no more than he;
One More, and no more! how can that be?
Why one More and no more, may lie here alone;
But here lies one More, and that’s more than one!
On the tombstone of John Fell, superintendent of the turnpike-roads from Kirby Kendal to Kirby Irleth, are the following lines:—
Reader, doth he not merit well thy praise,
Whose practice was through life to mend his ways?
IN SELBY CHURCHYARD, YORK.
This tombstone is a Milestone; ha, how so?
Because, beneath lies Miles, who’s Miles below.
ON DU BOIS, BORN IN A BAGGAGE-WAGON, AND KILLED IN A DUEL.
Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte tierce was his life, and a carte was his death,
ON LILL.
Here lies the tongue of Godfrey Lill,
Which always lied, and lies here still.
On the tombstone of Dr. Walker, who wrote a work on “English Particles,” is inscribed,—
Here lies Walker’s Particles.
Dr. Fuller’s reads,—
Here lies Fuller’s Earth.
And Archbishop Potter’s,—
Alack and well-a-day,
Potter himself is turned to clay.
Proposed by Jerrold for Charles Knight, the Shakspearian critic:—
Good Knight.
On a well-known Shakspearian actor:—
Exit Burbage.
On the tomb of an auctioneer at Greenwood:—
Going,—going,—GONE!
Miss Long was a beautiful actress of the last century, so short in stature that she was called the Pocket Venus. Her epitaph concludes,—
Though Long, yet short;
Though short, yet Pretty Long.
On the eminent barrister, Sir John Strange:—
Here lies an honest lawyer—that is Strange.
On William Button, in a churchyard near Salisbury:—
O sun, moon, stars, and ye celestial poles!
Are graves, then, dwindled into Button-holes?
On Foote, the comedian:—
Foote from his earthly stage, alas! is hurled;
Death took him off, who took off all the world.
In the chancel of the church of Barrow-on-Soar, Leicestershire, is the following on Theophilus Cave:—
Here in this Grave there lies a Cave.
We call a Grave a Cave;
If Cave be Grave, and Grave be Cave,
Then, reader, judge, I crave,
Whether doth Cave here lye in Grave,
Or Grave here lye in Cave:
If Grave in Cave here bury’d lye,
Then Grave, where is thy victory?
Goe, reader, and report here lyes a Cave,
Who conquers Death and buries his own Grave.
The following, in Harrow Churchyard, is 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.
ON THOMAS GREENHILL, OXFORDSHIRE, 1624.
He once a Hill was fresh and Green,
Now withered is not to be seen;
Earth in earth shovelled up is shut,
A Hill into a Hole is put;
But darksome earth by Power Divine,
Bright at last as the sun may shine.
ON A CORONER WHO HANGED HIMSELF.
He lived and died
By suicide.
ON A CELEBRATED COOK.
Peace to his hashes.
ON MR. FISH.
Worms bait for fish; but here’s a sudden change;
Fish is bait for worms—is not that passing strange?
ON TWO CHILDREN.
To the memory of Emma and Maria Littleboy,
the twin-children of
George and Emma Littleboy of Hornsey,
who died July 16, 1783.
Two little boys lie here,
Yet strange to say,
These little boys are girls.
ON MISS NOTT.
Nott born, Nott dead, Nott christened, Nott begot;
So here she lies that was and that was Nott.
Reader behold a wonder rarely wrought,
Which while thou seem’st to read thou readest Nott.
ON MARY ANGEL, STEPNEY, 1693.
To say an angel here interred doth lie,
May be thought strange, for angels never die;
Indeed some fell from heaven to hell,
Are lost to rise no more;
This only fell from death to earth,
Not lost but gone before;
Her dust lodged here, her soul perfect in grace,
Among saints and angels now hath took its place.
Beloe, in his Anecdotes, gives the following on William Lawes, the musical composer, who was killed by the Roundheads:—
Concord is conquered! In his turn there lies
The master of great Music’s mysteries;
And in it is a riddle, like the cause,
Will Lawes was slain by men whose Wills were Laws.
ON MR. JOSEPH KING.
Here lies a man than whom no better’s wal-king,
Who was when sleeping even always tal-king;
A king by birth was he, and yet was no king,
In life was thin-king, and in death was Jo-King.
On John Adams, of Southwell, a carrier, who died of drunkenness.—Byron.
John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A carrier who carried the can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more,—so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank being too much for one,
He could not carry off, so he’s now carri-on.
ON A LINEN-DRAPER.
Cottons and cambrics, all adieu,
And muslins too, farewell,
Plain, striped, and figured, old and new,
Three quarters, yard, or ell;
By nail and yard I’ve measured ye,
As customers inclined,
The churchyard now has measured me.
And nails my coffin bind.
ON A WOMAN WHO HAD AN ISSUE IN HER LEG.
Here lieth Margaret, otherwise Meg,
Who died without issue, save one in her leg.
Strange woman was she, and exceedingly cunning,
For while one leg stood still, the other kept running.
FROM LLANFLANTWYTHYL CHURCHYARD, WALES.
Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our church-organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling;
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he made our old organ give many a blast.
No puffer was he, though a capital blower,
He could fill double G, and now lies a note lower.
ON A LAST-MAKER.
Stop, stranger, stop, and wipe a tear,
For the last man at last lies here.
Though ever-last-ing he has been,
He has at last passed life’s last scene.
Famed for good works, much time he passed
In doing good,—he has done his last.
FROM ST. ANNE’S CHURCHYARD, ISLE OF MAN.
Daniel Tear, ob. Dec. 7, 1787, æt. 110 years.
Here, friend, is little Daniel’s tomb;
To Joseph’s age he did arrive,
Sloth killing thousands in their bloom,
While labor kept poor Dan alive.
Though strange, yet true, full seventy years
His wife was happy in her Tears.
In the Greek Anthology is a punning epitaph on a physician, by Empedocles, who lived in the fifth century before Christ. The pun consists in the derivation of the name Pausanias,—causing a cessation of pain or affliction,—and therefore only a portion of the double meaning can be preserved in a translation:—
Pausanias,—not so named without a cause,
As one who oft has given to pain a pause,—
Blest son of Esculapius, good and wise,
Here in his native Gela buried lies;
Who many a wretch once rescued by his charms
From dark Persephone’s constraining arms.