Author: Epitaph Page 4

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

Here lies England's premier baron, – Patiently awaiting the last trump.

A thousand ways cut short our days, none are exempt from death. A honey-bee by stinging me did stop my mortal breath.

Little Johnny had a purple monkey, climbing up a yellow stick, little Johnny licked the purple paint of and it made him deathly sick. They stirred him up with calomel, they tried to move his liver, but all in vain, his little soul was wafted o'er the River.

Here I lie, taken from life.

At threescore winters' end I died, a cheerless being, sole and sad; the nuptial knot I never tied, and wish my father never had.

Grim death took me without any warning, I was well at night, and died in the morning.

Here lies poor Ned Pardon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll ever come back.

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, by all their country's wishes blest, they sleep not in their regimentals. Such things being here not deemed essentials.

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.

Who lies here ? — Who do you think? 'Tis poor Will Gibson — give him a drink. Give him a drink, I'll tell you for why, when he was living, he always was dry.

Beneath this stone now dead to grief Lies Grid the famous Wokag chief. Pause here and think you learned prig, This man was once an Indian big. Consider this, ye lowly one, this man was once a big in-jun. Now he lies here, you too must rot, as sure as pig shall go to pot.

Here lies, cut down like unripe fruit, The wife of Deacon Amos Shute. She died of drinking too much coffee, Anno Dominy eighteen forty

This spot is the sweetest I've seen in my life, For it raises many flowers and covers my wife.

To the Green Memory of William Hawkings, Gardener: Planted Here With Love and Care By His Grieving Colleagues

Sacred to twins Charlie and Varlie. Sons of loving parents who died in infancy.

Here lies Salvino Armalo D'Armati of Florence, the inventor of spectacles. May God pardon his sins!

Due to lack of ground in this cemetery, two bodies are buried in this one plot. One of them was a politician, the other was an honest man.

Reader pass on and ne'er waste your time, On bad biography and bitter rhyme. For what I am this cumb'rous clay insures, And what I was, is no affair of yours.

Stranger pause and shed a tear, for Mary Jane lies buried here. Mingled in a most surprising manner with Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.

John Palfryman who is buried here, was aged four and twenty years. And near this place his Mother lies, likewise his father when he dies.