Author: Epitaph Page 25

Eliza, sorrowing rears this marble slab to her dear John who died of eating crab.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of John Round. Lost at sea and never found.

Epitaphs

It is so soon that I am done for, I wonder what I was begun for.

Epitaphs

Here lies Frank a shining light, whose name, life, actions all were white.

Epitaphs

The Yankees came South in droves and bands, To conquer our fair Southern lands. But this little plot, In this quiet spot, was all the land this damn Yankee got.

Epitaphs

Open, open wide ye golden gates that lead to the heavenly shore. Our father suffered in passing through and mother weighs much more.

Epitaphs

Approach and read, now with your hats on, for here lies Bailie William Watson; who was famous for his thinking, and moderation in his drinking.

Epitaphs

John Palfryman who is buried here, was aged four and twenty years. And near this place his Mother lies, likewise his father when he dies.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of Jonathan Blake. Stepped on the gas instead of the brake.

Epitaphs

Rest In Peace Cousin Huet – We all know you didn't do it

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At rest beneath this slab of stone, lies stingy Jimmy Wyatt. He died one morning just at ten, and saved a dinner by it.

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We all have a debt – To nature due – I've paid mine – And so must you.

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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.

Epitaphs

Mary Weary, Housewife. Dere friends I am going where washing ain't done or cooking or sewing: don't mourn for me now or weep for me never: for I go to do nothing, forever and ever!

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Here lies Arnel. ‘You should see the other guy.’

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She was good but not brilliant; useful but not great.

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This Ain’t Bad _____ Once You Get Used To It

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'Gone fishing', the sign said that hung upon the door. An Angel had put it there, God Was waiting on the shore.

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Here lies Thomas Smith and what is somewhat rareish, he was born bred and hanged in this e’er parish.

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Mary, Mary, quite contrary How does your garden grow? Quite well, I bet, Since it's well fed By her body decomposing below.

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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.

Epitaphs