Author: Epitaph Page 22

Here lieth, underneath these stones, The Beard, the Flesh, and eke the Bones Of Wrexham's Clerk, old Daniel Jones.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of Lady O'Looney, Grand-niece to Edmund Burke, Commonly called "the sublime." She was bland, passionate, and religious. Also, She painted in water-colors. Also, She sent several articles to the Exhibition.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of John Mound, lost at sea and never found.

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John and Lydia, that blooming pair, a whale killed him and her body lies here.

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Here lies the body of Jonathan Tilton, whose friends reduced him to a skeleton. They robbed him out of all he had And now rejoice that he is dead.

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Here lies the body of Edward Hyde. We laid him here because he died.

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The death angel struck Alexander McGlue and gave him protracted repose; he wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe And had a pink wart on his nose. No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space over on the evergreen shore. His friends are informed that his funeral takes place at precisely a quarter past four.

Epitaphs

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.

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Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes, My fate a useful moral teaches; The hole in which my body lies Would not contain one half my speeches

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We all have a debt – To nature due – I've paid mine – And so must you.

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Cold is my bed, but oh, I love it, – for colder are my friends above it.

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This is on me.

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G. Winch, the brewer, lies buried here. In life he was both hale and stout. Death brought him to his bitter bier. Now in heaven he hops about.

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I bowl'd, I struck, I caught, I stopp'd. Sure life's a game of cricket; I block'd with care, with caution popp'd, yet Death has hit my wicket.

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Grim Death To Please His Palate Has Taken My Lettice To Put in His Sallat.

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Learn the living from the dead, how easy breaks life's tender thread

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Here lies Kelly, we buried him today. He lived the life of Riley, when Riley was away!

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

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This is the last long resting place, Of Aunt Jemima Jones, Her soul ascended into space, Amidst our tears and groans, She was not pleasing to the eye, Nor had she any brain, And when she talked twas through her nose, Which gave her friends much pain, But still we feel that she was worth, The money that was spent, upon the coffin, hearse and stone (The funeral plumes were lent).

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Here lies the bones of David Jones, Laid both dead and dumb. He read a law and plead a cause But died from drinking rum.

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

Epitaphs