Author: Epitaph Page 29

Here lies old Rastus Sominy – died a-eating hominy, In 1859 anno domini

Epitaphs

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

Epitaphs

Born of woman, killed by lead. I most likely had your wife in bed.

Epitaphs

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.

Epitaphs

Beneath this stone, in hopes of Zion, doth lie the landlord of the lion; his son keeps on the business still, resigned unto the heavenly will.

Epitaphs

I would – rather be here – than in Texas.

Epitaphs

Here lies a lewd Fellow, who, while he drew Breath, In the Midst of his Life was in Quest of his Death; Which he quickly obtain'd for it cost him his Life, For being in Bed with another Man's Wife.

Epitaphs

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.

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Grim Death To Please His Palate Has Taken My Lettice To Put in His Sallat.

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

“Don’t Try”

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Under this yew tree, buried would he be, because his father – he planted this yew tree.

Epitaphs

All you that please these lines to read, it will cause a tender heart to bleed, I murdered was up on the fell, and by the man I knew full well; by bread & butter which he'd laid, I, being harmless, was betray'd. I hope he will rewarded be, that laid the poison there for me.

Epitaphs

Getting there is half the fun!

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Here lies the body Of Margaret Bent. She kicked up her heels And away she went.

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Posterity will ne'er survey – A nobler grave than this: – Here lies the bones of Castlereagh: – Stop, traveller, and piss.

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This is to the memory of Ellen Hill, a woman who would always have her will. She snubbed her husband but she made good bread. Yet on the whole he’s rather glad she’s dead. She whipped her children and she drank her gin, whipped virtue out and whipped the devil in. May all such women go to some great fold, where they through all eternity may scold.

Epitaphs

Peace to his hashes.

Epitaphs