Subject: Epitaphs (Page 27)

Sacred To the Memory of LEWIS WICKS, who was killed on Thursday the 4, Oct. at 2 O'ck. P.M. by a waggon loaded with hay running over his brest. AD.1821 AE 56 years 3 mo. & 4 d's. who has left an affectionate Consort, and numerous friends to lament his loss.

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.

School is out. Teacher Has gone home

I started out in life with the idea, that the world had an opening for me. And it did.

At length a grave spots for him provided, where all through him so many of us died did.

OOPS!, he died – Love from us your father, Tom jr. and Mary

Rebecca Freeland, 1741 – She drank good ale, good punch and wine, and lived to the age of 99.

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

This tombstone is a milestone – Hah! how so? – Because beneath lies Miles – Who's Miles below; – A little man he was, a dwarf in size, – But now stretch’d out, at least Miles long he lies. – His grave though small, contains a space so wide, – It has Miles in breadth, and Miles in length beside.

Here lies the landlord Tommy Dent In his last cosy tenement.

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

Shall all we die? We shall die all. All die shall we? Die all we shall.

Soon ripe, Soon rotten, Soon gone, Not forgotten

An excellent husband was this Mr. Danner, – He lived in a thoroughly honorable manner. – He may have had troubles. – But they burst like bubbles. – He's at peace, now with Mary, Jane Susan and Hannah.

Here lies Ned. There is nothing more to be said, because we like to speak well of the dead. I came into this world without my consent, and left in the same manner.

This world is a prison in every respect, whose walls are the heavens in common; the jailor is sin, and the prisoners men; and the fetters are nothing but women.

Beloved Husband of Joan, A Man With Nature, Who Loved Life & His Jigsaws – "Didjabringabeer"

Here lies the body of Richard Thomas, an Englishman by birth, a Whig of '76 – a Cooper by trade, now food for worms. Like an old rum puncheon whose staves are all marked and numbered he will be raised and put together again by his Maker.

Let me out of here !!!

She tormented him until he dried up like a bundle of Straw.

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