Author: Epitaph Page 9

Here lies one that once was born and cried, Lived several years — and then he died

Epitaphs

No doctor ever physicked me, was never near my side. But when fever came I thought of the name, and that was enough – I died.

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

Here lie the remains of John Hall, grocer. The world is not worth a fig, and I have good raisins for saying so.

Epitaphs

Our life is but a summer's day: Some only breakfast, and away; Others to dinner stay, and are full fed; The oldest man but sups, and goes to bed. Large his account who lingers out the day; Who goes the soonest, has the least to pay.

Epitaphs

Here lies Johnny Cole. Who died upon my soul after eating a plentiful dinner. While chewing his crust he was turned into dust with his crimes undigested – poor sinner.

Epitaphs

Here lies Bernard Lightfoot who was accidentally killed in his forty fifth year.

Epitaphs

Sweet Leota Beloved by All In Regions Beyond Now But Having a Ball

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.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of our Anna, Done to death by a banana. It wasn't the fruit that laid her low, But the skin of the thing that made her go.

Epitaphs

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

Epitaphs

At last, a year-round resident

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Hooray my brave boys let's rejoice at his fall. For if he had lived he would have buried us all.

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Here lies old Caleb Ham, by trade a bum. When de died the devil cried, Come, Caleb, come.

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A traveller lies here at rest, who life's rough ocean tossed on. His many virtues all expressed, thus simply – “I'm from Boston.”

Epitaphs

Rab McBeth – who died for the want of another breath.

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

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Stop, reader, pray and read my gate. What caused my life to terminate. For thieves by night when in my bed Broke in my house and shot me dead.

Epitaphs

To the Memory of Abraham Beaulieu. Born 15 September 1822. Accidentally shot 4th April 1844. As a mark of affection from his brother

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Here into the dust, the mouldering crust, of Eleanour Bachelour's shoven; well versed in the arts of pies, custards, and tarts. And the lucrative skill of the oven. When she lived long enough, she made her last puff, a puff by her husband much praised, now here she doth lie and makes a dirt pie, in hopes that her crust shall be raised.

Epitaphs