Author: Epitaph Page 5

Charity, wife of Gideon Bligh, underneath this stone doth lie. Nought was she e'er known to do, that her husband told her to.

Epitaphs

Old Vicar Sutor lieth here, Who had a Mouth from ear to ear. Reader tread lightly on the sod. For if he gapes, you're gone by G —.

Epitaphs

18 years a maiden, 1 year a wife, 1 day a mother, then I lost my life.

Epitaphs

None of us ever voted for Roosevelt or Truman

Epitaphs

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

I bowl'd, I struck, I caught, I stopp'd. Sure life's a game of cricket; I block'd with care, with caution popp'd, yet Death has hit my wicket.

Epitaphs

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

Epitaphs

He got a fish bone in his throat – And then he sang an angel's note.

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Returned – Unopened

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Grim death took me without any warning, I was well at night, and died in the morning.

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Here lies Granny Beth Sue Choked to death On Redman Chew

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Here lies one who never lied before. And one who never will lie More. To which there need be no More said.

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.

Epitaphs

As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you shall be. So prepare for death and follow me.

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Was suddenly killed at early dawn, July 4th, 1842, by the explosion of a small canon, aged 15 years

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Here lies Tommy Day, removed from over the way.

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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.

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The body of Benjamin Franklin, printer like the coyer of an old book its contents torn out and stripped of its lettering and gilding, lies here food for worms. – Yet the work itself shall not be lost for it will, as he believed, appear once more in a new and more beautiful edition corrected and amended by the author.

Epitaphs

The land I cleared is now my grave. Think well, my friends, how you behave

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Here lies – Johnny Yeast – Pardon me – For not rising.

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Poor John Scott is buried here, tho' once he was both hale and stout. Death stretched him on his bitter bier, in another world he hops about.

Epitaphs