But that our Burial may be ken’d.”

These, though the choicest specimens of their kind, form not more than a tithe of the humorous and curious epitaphs which are readily accessible to the writer. But—though we have not laughed once irreverently—perhaps, my reader, we have laughed long enough over the “cauld clay biggin’s” of gloomy Death, where rests in awful solemnity much that is sainted and sacred to us both. No more, then.

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