Author: Epitaph Page 14

A zealous locksmith died of late, and did not enter Heaven’s gate. But stood without and would not knock , because he meant to pick the lock.

Beneath the stone, a lump of clay, lies the man called Peter Hannels, who early in the month of May, took off his winter flannels.

Here lies my wife in earthly mould, who, when she liv'd, did naught but scold; peace, wake her not, for now she's still, she had, but now I have my will.

Under this yew tree, buried would he be, because his father – he planted this yew tree.

Here beneath this stone we lie, back to back my wife and I, And when the angels trump shall trill, If she gets up then I'll lie still!

Here lies old Jones, who all his life collected bones, till death, that grim and bony spectre, that all-amassing bone collector, boned old Jones, so neat and tidy, that here he lies all bona fide.

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

Sacred to the remains of Jonathan Thompson. A pious Christian and affectionate husband. His disconsolate widow continues to carry on his grocery business At the old stand on Main Street: Cheapest and best prices in town.

Here I at length repose, My spirit now at aise is; With the tips of my toes And the point of my nose Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

She lived genteely on a small income.

Here lies interred Priscilla Bird, who sang on earth till sixty two. Now up on high above the sky, no doubt she sings like sixty too.

Here richly, with ridiculous display, The Politician's corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.

A live Dog is better than a dead Lion. Come drop a tear as you pass by, as you are now so once was I, as I am now you soon must be, prepare for death and follow me.

Gone, but not forgiven

Ebenezer Dockwood aged forty seven. A miser and a hypocrite and never went to Heaven.

The manner of her death was thus; She was druv over by a Bus.

My father and mother were both insane. I inherited the terrible stain. My grandfather, grandmother, Aunts and uncles Were lunatics all And yet died of carbuncles

Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen. The most amiable of husbands And excellent of men. His real name was Woodcock, But it wouldn't come in rhyme.

Here lies old twenty five per cent. The more he had the more he lent. The more he had the more he craved, great God, can his poor soul be saved?

Soon ripe, Soon rotten, Soon gone, Not forgotten

Poorly lived and poorly died. Poorly buried and no one cried.