Author: Epitaph Page 4

Erected to the memory of John Macfarlane. Drowned in the waters of Leith – by a few affectionate friends.

Epitaphs

This debt I owe is justly due, and I am come to sleep with you.

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He heard the angels calling him, from the celestial shore. He flopped his wings and away he flew, to make one angel more.

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Blown upward out of sight: he sought the leak by candlelight

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Here lies Bob Master. Faith! t’was very hard to take away an honest Robin’s breath. Yes, surely Robin was full well prepared, for he was always looking out for death.

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I was not, I am not, I grieve not

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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.

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This stone was raised to Sarah Ford, not Sarah's virtues to record, for they're well known to all the town. No Lord; it was raised to keep her down.

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

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Sacred to the memory of My husband John Barnes Who died January 3, 1803. His comely young widow, aged 23, has many qualifications of a good wife, and yearns to be comforted.

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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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He took his beer from year to year – And then the bier took him.

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

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Here I lie, my name is Ball, I lived, I died, despised by all; and now I cannot chew my crust, I'm gone back to my ancient dust.

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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.

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Here lies Estella – Who transported a large fortune to heaven, in acts of charity, and has gone thither to enjoy it.

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"I knew this was going to happen to me."

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Fate cuts the thread of life, as all men know, and Fate cut his, though he so well could sew. It matters not how fine the web is spun, ‘tis all unravelled when our course is run.

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Old Vicar Sutor lieth here, Who had a Mouth from ear to ear. Reader tread lightly on the sod. For if he gapes, you're gone by G —.

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Here lies Suzannah Ensign; Lord she is thin

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Here Betsy Brown her body lies. Her soul is flying in the skies. While here on earth she oftimes spun six hundred skeins from sun to sun, and wove one day, her daughter brags, two hundred pounds of carpet rags.

Epitaphs