Author: Epitaph Page 14

Here lies a man named Zeke. Second fastest draw in Cripple Creek.

Epitaphs

She lived genteely on a small income.

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

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Susan Tomkins here she lies, nobody laughs and nobody crys, where shes gone or how she fares nobody knows and nobody cares

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Here lies Bernard Lightfoot who was accidentally killed in his forty fifth year.

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Now Go Away and Leave Me Alone

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Who lies here ? — Who do you think? 'Tis poor Will Gibson — give him a drink. Give him a drink, I'll tell you for why, when he was living, he always was dry.

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They abounded in riches but she wore the britches

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None of us ever voted for Roosevelt or Truman

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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.

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I am woman here me roar. And boy did she.

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John Rose, Died Jan. 27. 1810, aged 10 years. Dr Friends and companions all, pray warning take by me, don't venture on the ice too far, as `twas the death of me.

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Here lies the body of Martha Dias, who was always uneasy, and not over pious; she lived to the age of three score and ten, and gave that to the worms she refused to the men.

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Here's to Johnny quite a guy. Very sad he had to die. All was well could not be better, Till he wrote my girl a letter.

Conflict Epitaphs Girlfriends Killing

Sacred to the memory of My husband John Barnes Who died January 3, 1803. His comely young widow, aged 23, has many qualifications of a good wife, and yearns to be comforted.

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He lived and died by suicide

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Here richly, with ridiculous display, The Politician's corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.

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We must all die there is no doubt – Your glass is running… mine is out

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In the pride of his manhood he heard the last call, – Though first in the field where his feet pressed the sod. – He hath gained his last wicket and thrown his last ball, – To join in the choir 'round the throne of his God.

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Beneath this stone a lump of clay, lies Uncle Peter Dan'els – who early in the month of May, took off his winter flannels.

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… Here lie the bones of Sophie Jones; for her death held no terrors. She was born a maid and died a maid. No hits, no runs, no heirs.

Epitaphs