Subject: Epitaphs (Page 15)

Scotty… beam me up!

Epitaphs

Here lies Andrew – The quality of his armor was not assured

Epitaphs

Throughout his life he kneaded bread and deemed it quite a bore. But now six feet beneath earth's crust he needeth bread no more.

Epitaphs

Peace to his hashes.

Epitaphs

He looked for gold and died of lead poison

Epitaphs

Here lies Matthew Mudd, Death did him no hurt; when alive he was Mudd, but now he's only dirt

Epitaphs

Soon ripe, Soon rotten, Soon gone, Not forgotten

Epitaphs

Here lies Lotta Dust.

Epitaphs

She loved me and my grandchildren reverenced her. She bathed my feet and kept my socks well darned.

Epitaphs

I am ready to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.

Epitaphs

She was in health at 11.30 A. M. – And left for Heaven at 3.30 P. M.

Epitaphs

They were two living sisters, who in this dust do lie. The very day Annie was buried Elizabeth did die.

Epitaphs

Martha and I together lived – Just two years and a half; – She went first, and I followed after – the cow before the calf.

Epitaphs

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

Epitaphs

Here lies William Green, who died in Manchester, Sept. 18, 18__. Had he lived, he would have been buried here.

Epitaphs

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

Epitaphs

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear. To dig the dust enclosed here; blessed be the man that spares these stones, and curst be he that moves my bones.

Epitaphs

Julia Newton – died of thin shoes, April 17th, 1839, age 19 years.

Epitaphs

He held the pall at the funeral of Shakspeare.

Epitaphs

Sacred to the memory of Henry Harris who died from a kick by a colt in his bowells. Peacable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, respected by all who knew him, gone to the world where horses don’t kick, where sorrow and weeping are no more.

Epitaphs

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