Author: Epitaph Page 22

Ellen Shannon age 26 years, Who was fatally burned March 21, 1870 by the explosion of a lamp filled with "R. E. Danforth's Non-Explosive-Burning Fluid."

Epitaphs

Poor John Scott is buried here, tho' once he was both hale and stout. Death stretched him on his bitter bier, in another world he hops about.

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Beneath this smooth stone by the bone of his bone, Sleeps Master John Gill; By lies when alive this attorney did thrive, And now that he's dead he lies still.

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Beneath this stone our baby lies, it neither cries nor hollers, It lived but one and twenty days, and cost us forty dollars.

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Here lies Sissie Chang – Fumbled a grenade, went out with a bang

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ASSMAN

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Here lies a man that was Knott born, His father was Knott before him, He lived Knott, and did Knott die, Yet underneath this stone doth lie.

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Fair maiden Lilliard – lies under this stane – little was her stature – but muckle was her fame – upon the English loons – she laid monie thumps – and when her legs were cuttit off – she fought upon her stumps.

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DOUBT – Martha Mae “Take the back roads!” • Bill – “It’s five o’clock somewhere!”

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THOMAS O. MURPHY – Sh-h-h.

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Come blooming youths, as you pass by, And on these lines do cast an eye. As you are now, so once was I; As I am now, so must you be; Prepare for death and follow me.

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The winter snow congealed his form, but now we know our Uncle’s warm.

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… Dentist Brown – Is filling his last cavity.

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

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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.

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Praises on tombs are trifles vainly spent; a man's good name is his best monument.

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Mary Weary, Housewife. Dere friends I am going where washing ain't done or cooking or sewing: don't mourn for me now or weep for me never: for I go to do nothing, forever and ever!

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Here lies Lord Coningsby – be civil, the rest God knows – so does the Devil.

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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.

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Mary, Mary, quite contrary How does your garden grow? Quite well, I bet, Since it's well fed By her body decomposing below.

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I would – rather be here – than in Texas.

Epitaphs