Author: Epitaph Page 26

Farewell my young companions all. From death's arrest no age is free. Remember this, a warning call. Prepare to follow after me.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of John Smith. Buried in the cloisters. If he don't jump at the last trump, call, Oysters!

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton – She was a wife that never vexed one. – But I can't say as much for the one at the next stone.

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Here lies Dr Keene, the good Bishop of Chester, who eat up a fat goose, but could not digest her.

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In memory of Richard Fothergill, who met vierlent death near this spot 18 hundred and 40 too. He was shot by his own pistill. It was not one of the new kind; but an old fashioned brass barrell. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

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I knew if I stayed around long enough, something like this would happen

Epitaphs

Since all that's mortal turns to dust, Reader! be humble and be just; 'Twill ease thy mind of anxious care, and sooth thy passage — God knows where!

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Here lies poor Ned Pardon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll ever come back.

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

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Sudden and unexpected was the end – Of our esteemed and beloved friend, – He gave to all his friends a sudden shock – By one day falling into Sunderland dock.

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Tom Smith is dead, and here he lies, nobody laughs and nobody cries; where his soul's gone, or how it fares, nobody knows, and nobody cares.

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“Here lies my wife in earthy mold, Who when she died and naught but scold. Good friends go softly in your walking lest she should wake and rise up talking”

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Beneath this grassy Mound now rests One Edgar Oscar Earl, Who to another Hunter looked Exactly like a squirrel.

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She lived a life of virtue and died of the cholera morbus, caused by eating green fruit in hope of a blessed immortality.

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Fear God, keep His Commandments, Don't attempt to climb up in a tree That's what caused the death of me!

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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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Beneath this stone now dead to grief Lies Grid the famous Wokag chief. Pause here and think you learned prig, This man was once an Indian big. Consider this, ye lowly one, this man was once a big in-jun. Now he lies here, you too must rot, as sure as pig shall go to pot.

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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.

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Scotty… beam me up!

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Here lies my wife a sad slatterned shrew. If I said I regretted her, I should lie too.

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Here lies a man who while he lived was happy as a linnet. He always lied while on the earth and now he's lying in it.

Epitaphs