Author: Epitaph Page 24

Here lies old Jones, who all his life collected bones, till death, that grim and bony spectre, that all-amassing bone collector, boned old Jones, so neat and tidy, that here he lies all bona fide.

Epitaphs

Bye

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Peace to his hashes.

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This world is a prison in every respect, whose walls are the heavens in common; the jailor is sin, and the prisoners men; and the fetters are nothing but women.

Epitaphs

Here doth lye the bodie – Of John Flye, who did die – By a stroke from a sky-rocket – Which hit him on the eye-socket.

Epitaphs

To the Green Memory of William Hawkings, Gardener: Planted Here With Love and Care By His Grieving Colleagues

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Buried here beneath this clay lies gardener John Arbothnaut Jay. Now in his simpeternal home, a constant source of high-grade loam.

Epitaphs

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, by all their country's wishes blest, they sleep not in their regimentals. Such things being here not deemed essentials.

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A Finished Artist

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To follow you I am not content, How do I know Which way you went.

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Factory Reject

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HA! HA! I’m Pushing Up Daisies!!!

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Beneath this smooth stone by the bone of his bone – Sleeps Master John Gill; – By lies when alive this attorney did thrive, – And now that he's dead he lies still.

Epitaphs Lawyers Lies

… But the reason why I am here interred 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 to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.

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Grim death took me without any warning, I was well one day, and stone dead next morning.

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Sacred to the remains of Jonathan Thompson. A pious Christian and affectionate husband. His disconsolate widow continues to carry on his grocery business At the old stand on Main Street: Cheapest and best prices in town.

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Elizabeth McFadden, wife of David P. Read. Died Feb. 28, 1859, in her 47th year. She never done a thing to displeas her husband.

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He heard the angels calling him, from the celestial shore. He flopped his wings and away he flew, to make one angel more.

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Here Delia's buried at fourscore; When young, a lewd rapacious Whore, Vain and expensive; but when old, A pious, sordid, drunken Scold.

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The dust of Melantha Gribbling, swept up at last by the Great Housekeeper

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For a good time, dig.

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