Quaint Epitaphs by Various (e novels to read txt) 📕

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

Shakspeare.

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.

Nova Scotia.

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?

Mt. Park Cemetery, Montreal.

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.

Folkstone.

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.

Paris.

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."

Manchester, England.

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.

St. Botolph's.

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

St. Clair, Canada.

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
Brewer.

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.
Much good, some ill he did so hope all's even
And his soul through mercy is gone to Heaven.
You that survive and read this tale take care,
For this most certain event to prepare;
Where blest in peace the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the silent dust.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Quaint Epitaphs, by Various