Funny Epitaphs.

COLLECTED BY
Arthur Wentworth Eaton.

BOSTON:
The Mutual Book Company.
1902.

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.

—Richard II, Act III, Scene ii.

Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

—Macbeth, Act III, Scene ii.

Let there be no inscription upon my tomb; let no man write my epitaph.

—Robert Emmet.

Friend, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd
So very much is said,
One half will never be believ'd
The other never read.

[EPITAPHS ON MEN.]

An old American epitaph:

Under this sod, and under these trees,
Lieth the body of Samuel Pease;
He is not in this hole, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul and went up to God.

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Another version:

Under this sod, beneath these trees,
Lyeth the pod of Solomon Pease.
Pease is not here, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul, which went straight to his God.

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Here lies the body of Johnny Haskell
A lying, thieving, cheating rascal;
He always lied, and now he lies,
He has no soul and cannot rise.

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An Irishman wrote the following oft-quoted lines for his epitaph:

Here I lays,
Paddy O'Blase;
My body quite at its aise is,
With the tip of my nose
And the points of my toes
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

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In Ballyporen (Ire.) churchyard, on Teague O'Brian, written by himself:

Here I at length repose,
My spirit now at aise is;
With the tips of my toes
And the point of my nose
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

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Here lies Richard Fothergill who met a violent death. He was shot by a colt's revolver, old kind, brass mounted, and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

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A Cornwall churchyard is enriched with the following dainty verses:

Here lies entombed one Roger Morton,
Whose sudden death was early brought on;
Trying one day his corn to mow off,
The razor slipped and cut his toe off.

The toe, or rather what it grew to,
An inflammation quickly flew to;
The parts they took to mortifying,
And poor dear Roger took to dying.

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The death angel struck Alexander McGlue
And gave him protracted repose;
He wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe
And had a pink wart on his nose.

No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space
Over on the evergreen shore.
His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
At precisely a quarter past four.

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At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:

He lived one hundred and five,
Sanguine and strong;
A hundred to five,
You live not so long.
Dy'd March 4, 1687.

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This is all that remains of poor Ben Hough
He had forty-nine years and that was enough.
Of worldly goods he had his share,
And now he's gone to the Devil's snare.

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In an old cemetery in Lyme, Conn.:

Close behind this stone
Here lies alone
Captain Reynolds Marvin,
Expecting his wife
When ends her life,
And we both are freed from sarvin'.

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Here lies the body of Captain Gervase Scrope, of the family of the Scropes of Bilton, in the county of York, who departed this life 26th August, Anno Domini 1705, aged 66.

An epitaph written by himself, in the agony and doloroes paines of the gout, and died soon after.

Here lies an old toss'd tennis ball.
Was racketted from spring to fall.
With so much heat and so much frost,
Time's arms for shame grew ty'rd at last.
Four kings in camps he truly served,
And from his loyalty ne'er swerved.
Father ruin'd, the son slighted,
And from the Crown ne'er requited.
Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood,
Was too well known, but did no good.
With long campaigns and paines o' th' Gout,
He could no longer hold it out.
Always a restless life he led,
Never at quiet till quite dead.
He married in his latter days
One who exceeds the common praise;
But wanting health still to make known
Her true affection and his own,
Death kindly came, all wants supply'd,
By giving Rest which life deny'd.

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From a tombstone near Williamsport, Penn.:

Sacred to the Memory of
HENRY HARRIS,
Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris
And Jane his Wife.
Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt in his bowels.

Peaceable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, and respected by all who knew him, and went to the world where horses don't kick, where sorrow and weeping is no more.

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YATTENDON BERKS. 1770.

O Death, thy call was soon,
My pains were smart,
But I, prepared,
Was ready to depart
In hopes to Heaven, there to sit
With Saints and Angels bright,
Singing Hallelujahs
In which I took delight.

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Tread softly mortals o'er the bones
Of this world's wonder, Captain Jones,
Who told his glorious deeds to many
Yet never was believed by any.
Posterity let this suffice
He swore all's true, yet here he lies.

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Here lies the body of John Bidwell,
Who, when in life, wished his neighbors no evil.
In hopes up to jump
When he hears the last trump
And triumph over Death and the Devil.

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Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man.

—Goldsmith.

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Beneath this stone of granite hard
Lies my own beloved pard.

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ON A MR. PECK

Here lies a Peck, which some men say
Was first of all a Peck of clay;
This wrought with skill divine, while fresh,
Became a curious Peck of flesh.
Through various forms its Maker ran,
Then adding breath made Peck a man;
Full fifty years Peck felt life's troubles
Till death relieved a Peck of troubles;
Then fell poor Peck, as all things must.
And here he lies,—a Peck of dust.

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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

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Here lies the body of John Smith. Had he lived till he got ashore, he would have been buried here.

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Here lies Dr. Trollope,
Who made these stones roll up;
He took a dose of jalop,
And God took his soul up.

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John Macpherson
Was a remarkable person;
He stood six feet two
Without his shoe,
And he was slew
At Waterloo.

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Here lies John Auricular,
Who in the ways of the Lord walked perpendicular.

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Don't weep for me, my wife most dear,
But still remember I lie here,
Altho' cut down when little past my bloom,
Shed not one tear upon my tomb.

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From Harrow Churchyard :

In memory of Mr. John Port, son of Mr. Thomas Port, of Burton-on-Trent, who, not far from this town, had both his legs severed from his body by the Railway Train. With greatest fortitude he bore a second amputation by the surgeons, and died from loss of blood.

Bright rose the morn, and vigorous rose poor Port,
Gay on the train he used his wonted sport.
When noon arrived, a mangled form they bore,
With pain distorted and o'erwhelmed with gore.
When evening came to close the fatal day,
A mutilated corpse the sufferer lay.

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A miser:

Here lies one who for medicine would not give
A little gold, and so his life he lost:
I fancy now he'd wish again to live
Could he but guess how much his funeral cost.

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Here lies the body of Jonathan Near
Whose mouth it stretched from ear to ear.
Tread softly, stranger, o'er this wonder,
For if he yawns, you're gone, by thunder!

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Truro, Nova Scotia:

Don't weep for me, Eliza dear,
I am not dead, but sleeping here.
As I am now so you must be,
Prepare for death and follow me.

OLIVER P. DONNALLY.

A son that has been ever kind
Has gone and left us all behind;
Cease to weep, my Mother dear,
For I am wrapped up and lying here.
Dear Oliver has gone to rest
In Heaven above with Angels blest;
A place is vacant at our hearts.
Which never can be filled.

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From Banbury Churchyard:

To the memory of Ric. Richards, who by a Gangreen first lost a Toe, afterwards a Leg, and lastly his Life on the 7th day of April, 1656.

Ah! cruel Death, to make 3 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 when thou shalt fall.

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The graveyard at Wigtown, Gallowayshire, Scotland, furnish the two following:

Here lies the corps of Andrew Cowan, of Croft Angry, who died June 6th, 1776, aged 70 years. And his son William lies beside him, who died the 21st February, 1778, aged 17 years.

And his son John of honest fame,
Of stature small and a leg lame;
Content he was with portion small,
Keeped shop in Wigtown, and that's all.
Died August 21st, 1779, aged 32 years.

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In Plymouth old churchyard :

Here lies the body of
Thomas Vernon,
The only surviving son of
Admiral Vernon.

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In New Hampshire:

Here lies old Caleb Ham,
By trade a bum.
When Caleb dyed the Devil cryed:
"Come, Caleb, come."

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Lord Brougham (for an orator):

Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes,
My fate a useful moral teaches;
The hole in which my body lies
Would not contain one half my speeches.

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On a bachelor:

At threescore winters' end I died,
A cheerless being, sole and sad;
The nuptial knot I never tied,
And wish my father never had.

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Here lies the body of Henry Round
Who went to sea and never was found.

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In Thetford Churchyard, Norfolk:

My grandfather was buried here,
My cousin Jane and two uncles dear;
My father perished with an inflammation in his thighs
And my sister dropped down dead in the Minories;
But the reason why I'm here interr'd, 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 too much wine, brandy, gin, or anything strong.

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The celebrated Daniel Lambert's epitaph, St. Martin's, Stamford Baron, England:

Altus in animo, in corpore maximus.

In remembrance of that prodigy in Nature,

DANIEL LAMBERT.

A native of Leicester, who was possessed of an exalted, convivial mind;
and in personal greatness had no competitor;
He measured 3 ft. 1 in. round the legs, 9 ft. 4 in. round the body,
and weighed 52 st. 11 lb.

He departed this life on the 21st June, 1809,
Aged 39 years.

As a testimony of respect, this stone is erected by his friend in Leicester.

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Man's life's a vapor, and full of woes,
He cuts a caper, and down he goes.

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John Knott, of Sheffield, England:

Here lies a man that was Knott born,
His father was Knott before him,
He lived Knott, and did Knott die,
Yet underneath this stone doth lie.

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In a French cemetery there are the following concise inscriptions on one tombstone. The epitaph is on husband and wife:

I am anxiously expecting you.—A. D. 1827.
Here I am!—A. D. 1867.

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GOVERNOR STOUGHTON.

A man to wedlock unknown,
Devout in religion,
Renowned for virtue,
Famous for erudition,
Acute in judgment.

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An old man:

Lively I walked life's journey through
Till I arrived at eighty-two;
Then calm descended here to rest
In hopes to be forever blest.

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Hackett to the author of Dr. Mead's epitaph:

Mead's not dead then, you say, only sleeping a little;
Why, egad, sir, you've hit it off there to a tittle;
Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt—
Pluto knows who he's got, and will ne'er let him out.

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Oldtown, Maine:

ORONO, AN INDIAN CHIEF, 1801.

Safe lodg'd within his blanket, here below,
Lie the last relics of old Orono;
Worn down with toil and care, he in a trice
Exchang'd his wigwam for a paradise.

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From St. Philip's Churchyard, Birmingham:

To the memory of James Baker, who died January 27th, 1781.

O cruel Death, how cou'd you be so unkind
To take him before and leave me behind?
You should have taken both of us, if either,
Which would have been more pleasing to the survivor.

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Died, on the 14th inst., Henry Wilkins Glyn, aged 3 days and 7 hours. After a long and painful illness, which he bore with Christian fortitude, this youthful martyr departed to his rest.

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Here lies the body of Jonathan Stout.
He fell in the water and never got out,
And still is supposed to be floating about.

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Here lies one Box within another;
The one of wood
Was very good;
We cannot say so much for t' other.

[Epitaphs on Women.]

An epitaph from an Irish graveyard:

Here lies the body of Lady O'Looney,
Grand-niece to Edmund Burke,
Commonly called "the sublime."
She was bland, passionate, and religious,
Also,
She painted in water-colors.
Also,
She sent several articles to the Exhibition.
She was first cousin to Lady Jones.
And of such is the kingdom of heaven.
Amen.

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At St. Albans:

Sacred to the memory of Miss Martha Gwynn,
Who was so very pure within,
She burst the outer shell of sin,
And hatched herself a cherubim.

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There is an epitaph of an eccentric character that may be seen on a tombstone at the burying-grounds near Hoosick Falls, New York. It reads:

Ruth Sprague, Daughter of Gibson and Elizabeth Sprague. Died June 11, 1846, aged 9 years, 4 months, and 3 days.

She was stolen from the grave by Roderick R. Clow, dissected at Dr. P. M. Armstrong's office, in Hoosick, N. Y., from which place her mutilated remains were obtained and deposited here.

Her body dissected by fiendish man,
Her bones anatomized,
Her soul, we trust, has risen to God,
Where few physicians rise.

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Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton,
Who as a wife did never vex one.
We can't say that for her at the next stone.

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Here lies the body of Ann Mann,
Who lived an old woman,
And died an old Mann.

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Epitaph on Lady Molesworth. Burnt to death 6 May, 1763:

A peerless matron, pride of female life
In every state, as widow, maid, or wife;
Who wedded, to threescore preserved her fame,
She lived a phœnix, and expired in flame.

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A Welsh husband thus sings above the grave of his better-half:

This spot is the sweetest I've seen in my life,
For it raises my flowers and covers my wife.

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At Wolstanton:

MRS. ANN JENNINGS.

Some have children, some have none;
Here lies the mother of twenty-one.

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This corpse
Is Phœbe Thorp's.

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In memory of the "Wigtown Martyrs:"

Here lyes Margrat Willson, Doughter of Gilbert Willson, in Glenvernoch, who was Drowned Anno 1685, age 18.

Let Earth and stone still witness beare
Their lyes a virgine Martyre Here,
Marter'd for owning Christ Supream
Head of his church and no more crime
But not abjuring Presbytry
And not owning Prelacy.
They her condemned by unjust law,
Within the Sea Ty'd to a stake.
The actors of this cruel crime
Was Lagg Strachan, Winram, and Graham.
Neither young years nor yet old age
Could stop the fury of their rage.

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From Nettlebed Churchyard, Oxfordshire:

Here lies father, and mother, and sister, and I;
We all died within the space of one short year;
They were all buried at Wimble except I,
And I be buried here.

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Commemorative of Thamozine J., wife of James Vernon:

'Tis with regret, dear Thamozine,
Her voice no more to hear,
I'll banish from my heart
Her groanings in my ear.

Her children were her care,
To me she did request,
Take care and with them share
On your honesty I can trust.

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Poor Martha Snell, she's gone away,
She would if she could, but she could not stay;
She'd two bad legs, and a baddish cough,
But her legs it was that carried her off.

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Here lies my wife, poor Molly, let her lie,
She finds repose at last, and so do I.

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In a Salisbury graveyard, upon a stone recording the death of a lady at the age of sixty-four years, appears the following:

So fair, so young,
So gentle and so dear,
So lovely, so early lost,
May claim a tear.

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From Childwald Churchyard, England:

Here lies me and my three daughters,
Brought here by using seidlitz waters.
If we had stuck to epsom salts,
We wouldn't have been here in these vaults.

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Arlington, Massachusetts:

Here lies the body of Mary Morgan.
Like the morning dew she glistened,
Exhaled, and went to heaven.

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Philadelphia, Pennsylvania:

MRS. MARTHA GIFFORD, 1810.

Sickness sore, long time I bore
Physician's skill in vain,
Till God revealed his tender love
And took away my pain.

And now, I at my anchor ride,
With many of the fleet;
Once more, again, I will set sail
My Saviour Christ to meet.

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Susan Tomkins, here she lies;
Nobody laughs, and nobody cries.
Where she's gone, or how she fares,
Nobody knows, and nobody cares.

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Here lies the body of Mary Ann Lowder,
Who died while drinking a seidlitz powder.
Called from earth to her heavenly rest,
She should have waited till it effervesced

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In Charlestown, Virginia:

She was taken sick the 11th of June,
And only lived ten days;
But she has gone to rest in heaven above,
To sing her Saviour's praise.

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Westfield, New Jersey:

The dame that rests beneath this tomb
Had Rachel's beauty, Leah's fruitful womb,
Abigail's wisdom, Lydia's faithful heart,
Martha's just care, and Mary's better part.

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Here lies the body of Mary Ann Ford,
We trust her soul is with the Lord,
But if she's missed of eternal life,
It's better than being John Ford's wife.

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Here lies the body of Mary Ann Bent,
She kicked up her heels, and away she went.

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From Smithfield, Rhode Island, 1796:

While she was at a brook,
And where she did not like to go,
She from her friends was sudden took,
Seized with a fit she's subject to.
Her body in the water lay,
Her weeping husband found the same,
The means was used without delay
To call her back, but all in vain.
Her life to God she did resign,
And angels bore her soul away.
The grave her body now confines
Shall rise triumphant the last day.

[Epitaphs on Occupations.]

On an old woman who kept a pottery-shop in Chester, England:

Beneath these stones lies old Kathering Gray,
Changed from a busy life to lifeless clay;
By earth and clay she got her pelf,
But now is turned to earth herself.
Ye weeping friends, let me advise,
Abate your grief and dry your eyes,
For what avails a flood of tears?
Who knows but in a run of years,
In some tall pitcher or bread pan,
She in her shop may be again?

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On an undertaker:

Here lies Rob Master. Faith! 'twas 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.

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Nell Bachelour, an Oxford pie woman:

Here into the dust
The mouldering crust
Of Eleanour Bachelour's shoven;
Well versed in the arts
Of pies, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.

When she lived long enough
She made her last puff,
A puff by her husband much praised,
Now here she doth lie
And makes a dirt pie,
In hopes that her crust shall be raised.

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On a tramp:

Here lies one that once was born and cried,
Lived several years—and then—and then he died.

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A photographer:

Here I lie, taken from life.

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A lawyer:

Entombed within this vault a lawyer lies
Who, fame assureth us was just and wise,
An able advocate and honest too;
That's wondrous strange, indeed, if it be true.

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Another lawyer:

See how God works his wonders now and then,—
Here lies a lawyer, and an honest man.

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A tailor:

Fate cuts the thread of life, as all men know,
And Fate cut his, though he so well could sew.
It matters not how fine the web is spun,
'Tis all unravelled when our course is run.

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Here lies an editor.

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On a horse thief:

He found a rope and picked it up,
And with it walked away.
It happened that to tother end
A horse was hitched, they say.
They took the rope and tied it up
Unto a hickory limb.
It happened that the tother end
Was somehow hitched to him.

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