Author: Epitaph Page 23

He married five wives, Whom he survived. At the age of 93 he walked to London, to seek a sixth but died before he found her.

Epitaphs

Here lies one John Witherbee, – A Boston gallant chap was he. – God had no use for such as he, – The devil rejected Witherbee.

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

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Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton – She was a wife that never vexed one. – But I can't say as much for the one at the next stone.

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The Lord saw good; I was lopping off wood, and down fell from the tree; I met with a check, and I broke my neck, and so Death lopped off me.

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Haine haint

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Bill Blake – was hanged by mistake.

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Here lies Joseph Trowlup, who made yon stones roll up: when death took his soul up, his body filled this hole up.

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Here lies entombed one Roger Morton, whose sudden death was early brought on; trying one day his corn to mow off, the razor slipped and cut his toe off. The toe, or rather what it grew to, an inflammation quickly flew to; the parts they took to mortifying, And poor dear Roger took to dying.

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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.

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Here lies the body of John Smith. Buried in the cloisters. If he don't jump at the last trump, call, Oysters!

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Here beneath this pile of stones – Lies all thats left of Sally Jones. – Her name was Lord, it was not Jones, – But Jones was used to rhyme with stones.

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Life is a jest, and all things show it; I thought so once and now I know it.

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Go away – I’m asleep.

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I’m A Writer But Then Nobody’s Perfect

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At last, a year-round resident

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I was not, I am not, I grieve not

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He looked for gold and died of lead poison

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He found a rope and picked it up, and with it walked away. It happened that to tother end, a horse was hitched, they say. They took the rope and tied it up, unto a hickory limb. It happened that the tother end, was somehow hitched to him.

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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.

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This wasn’t my idea

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