Author: Epitaph

This is the grave of Mike O’Day, who died maintaining his right of way. His right was clear, his will was strong, but he’s just as dead as if he’d been wrong.

His faults are buried with him beneath this stone. His virtues (if he had any) are remembered by his friends.

 Here lies the body of Dr Hayward, a man who never voted. Of such is the kingdom of Heaven.

Here I lie bereft of breath, because a cough carried me off; then a coffin they carried me off in.

Dear Lemuel Willard Died in 1821 – When present useful, absent wanted – Lived respected, died lamented.

Behold! I come as a thief. – Death loves a shining mark. – In this case he had it.

Here lies Gilles. He used no net, Knew no fear. He made a misstep And wound up here

In memory of Richard Fothergill, who met vierlent death near this spot 18 hundred and 40 too. He was shot by his own pistill. It was not one of the new kind; but an old fashioned brass barrell. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.

Paul Lennis Swank – Here under the dung of cows and sheep, lies an old highclimber fast asleep. His trees all topped and his lines all hung. They say the old rascal died full of rum.

Two great physicians first, my Loving husband tried, to cure my pain, in vain. At last he got a third, and then I died.

I knew if I stayed around long enough, something like this would happen

Dinah had a little can, 'Twas filled with kerosine. And soon among the twinkling stars – Dynamite Benzine.

I plant these shrubs upon your grave dear wife. That something on this spot may boast of life. Shrubs must wither and all earth must rot. Shrubs may revive, but you thank heaven will not.

Here lies two brothers by misfortune surrounded; one died of wounds, but the other was drownded.

RUSSELL J. LARSEN – Two things I love most, good horses and beautiful women, and when I die I hope they tan this old hide of mine, and make it into a ladies riding saddle, so I can rest in peace between the two things I love.

Death is a debt that’s justly due, that I have paid and so must you.

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

Here lies (the Lord have mercy on her) One of Her Majesty's maids of honour: she was young, slender, and pretty; she died a maid — the more's the pity.

Here lies an Atheist. All dressed up and no place to go.

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

Stranger pause and shed a tear, for Mary Jane lies buried here. Mingled in a most surprising manner with Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.