A servant maid was sent by her mistress to Ben Jonson for an epitaph on her departed husband. She could only afford to pay half-a-guinea, which Ben refused, saying he never wrote one for less than double that sum; but recollecting he was going to dine that day at a tavern, he ran down stairs and called her back. “What was your master’s name?”—“Jonathan Fiddle, sir.” “When did he die?”—“June the 22nd, sir.” Ben took a small piece of paper, and wrote with his pencil, while standing on the stairs, the following:— On the twenty-second of June,
Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.
On Shadrach Johnson, Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty-
four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.
Shadrach lies here; who made both sexes happy,
The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.
On a Cricketer. I bowled, I struck, I caught, I stopt,
Sure life’s a game of cricket;
I block’d with care, with caution popp’d,
Yet Death has hit my wicket.
On a Puritanical Locksmith. A zealous locksmith died of late,
And did arrive at heaven gate;
He stood without and would not knock,
Because he meant to pick the lock.
On John Cole,
Who died suddenly, while at dinner. Here lies Johnny Cole,
Who died, on my soul,
After eating a plentiful dinner.
While chewing his crust,
He was turned into dust,
With his crimes undigested—poor sinner!
On Mr. Death, the Actor. Death levels all, both high and low,
Without regard to stations;
Yet why complain,
If we are slain?
For here lies one, at least, to show,
He kills his own relations.
“The following reference to one departed Mr. Strange, of the legal profession, is rather complimentary; and I have only to hope that the fact of the case is as stated, and that the writer was not led away by the obvious opportunity of making a point, to exaggerate the virtues of the deceased. It looks a little suspicious.” (Dickens). “Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that is Strange.”
“Dr. I. Letsome wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone; but it is not likely that he allowed his friends, or at least his patients, to read it until he was under the turf, or out of practice:”— “When people’s ill, they comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats ’em;
Sometimes they live, sometimes they die;
What’s that to I? I. Letsome.” (lets ’em.)
On Mr. Foot. Here lies one Foot, whose death may thousands save;
For Death himself has now one Foot i’ th’ grave.
On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in
Horse-racing. John ran so long, and ran so fast,
No wonder he ran out at last;
He ran in debt, and then to pay,
He distanced all—and ran away.
On a Miser. They call’d thee rich, I deem’d thee poor,
Since, if thou dar’dst not use thy store,
But sav’d it only for thy heirs,
The treasure was not thine—but theirs.
Lines written by Robert of Gloucester upon King Henry the First, who died through over-eating of his favourite fish:— “And when he com hom he willede of an lampreye to ete,
Ac hys leeches hym oerbede, vor yt was feble mete,
Ac he wolde it noyt beleve, vor he lovede yt well ynow,
And ete as in better cas, vor thulke lampreye hym slow,
Vor anon rygt thereafter into anguysse he drow,
And died vor thys lampreye, thane hys owe wow.”
On John Sydney,
Who died full of the Small Pox. In this sacred urn there lies,
Till the last trump make it rise,
A light that’s wanting in the skies.
A corpse inveloped with stars,
Who, though a stranger to the wars,
Was mark’d with many hundred scars. Death, at once, spent all his store
Of darts, which this fair body bore,
Though fewer had kill’d many more.
For him our own salt tears we quaff,
Whose virtues shall preserve him safe,
Beyond the power of epitaph.
Upon Two Religious Disputants,
Who are interred within a few paces of each other. Suspended here a contest see,
Of two whose creeds could ne’er agree;
For whether they would preach or pray,
They’d do it in a different way;
And they wou’d fain our fate deny’d,
In quite a different manner dy’d!
Yet, think not that their rancour’s o’er;
No! for ’tis 10 to 1, and more,
Tho’ quiet now as either lies,
But they’ve a wrangle when they rise.
On a disorderly fellow, named Chest. Here lies one Chest within another.
That chest was good
Which was made of wood,
But who’ll say so of t’other?
On John Death. Here lies John Death, the very same
That went away with a cousin of his name.
Lord Coningsby. By Pope. Here lies Lord Coningsby—be civil;
The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil.
On General Tulley. Here lies General Tulley,
Aged 105 years fully;
Nine of his wives beside him doth lie,
And the tenth must lie here when she doth die.
A Bishop’s Epitaph. In this house, which I have borrowed from my brethren worms, lie I, Samuel, by divine permission late Bishop of this Island, in hope of the resurrection to Eternal life. Reader, stop! view the Lord Bishop’s palace, and smile.
On a Welchman,
Killed by a Fall from his Horse. Here lies interr’d, beneath these stones,
David ap-Morgan, ap-Shenkin, ap-Jones;
Hur was born in Wales, hur was travell’d in France,
And hur went to heaven—by a bad mischance.
Card Table Epitaph on a Lady, whose Ruin and Death
were caused by gaming. Clarissa reign’d the Queen of Hearts,
Like sparkling Diamonds were her eyes;
But through the Knave of Clubs, false arts,
Here bedded by a Spade she lies.
Reader, in that peace of earth,
In peace rest Thomas Arrowsmith.
In peace he lived, in peace went hence,
With God & men & conscience:
Peace for other men he sought,
And peace with pieces sometimes bought.
Pacifici, may others bee,
But ex pace factro hee.
Ann Mitchell. Loe here I lye till Trumpets sound,
And Christ for me shall call;
And then I hope to rise again,
And dye no more at all.
O Merciful Jesu that Brought
Mans SÔule from Hell;
Have Mercy of the SÔule
of Jane Bell.
On a very idle Fellow. Here lieth one that once was born & cried,
Liv’d several years, & then—& then—he died.
On a Great consumer of Bread, Cheese, and Tobacco. Here gaffer B . . . Jaws are laid at Ease,
Whose Death has dropped the price of Bread & Cheese.
He Eat, he drank, he smoked, and then
He Eat, and drank, and smÔked again.
So Modern Patriots, rightly understood,
Live to themselves, and die for Public Good.
Thin in beard, and thick in purse,
Never man beloved worse;
He went to the grave with many a curse:
The devil and he had both one nurse.
They were so one, that none could say
Which of them ruled, or whether did obey,
He ruled, because she would obey; and she,
In so obeying, ruled as well as he.
Good People draw near,
There is no need of a tear,
Merry L . . . is gone to his Bed;
I am placed here to tell,
Where now lies the shÊll,
If he had any soÛl it is fled.
Make the Bells ring aloud,
And be joyful the croud,
For Mirth was his favourite theme,
Which to Praise he turned Poet,
Its fit you should know it,
Since he has left nothing more than his name.
On an Ass (by the late late Dr. Jenner). Beneath this hugh hillock here lies a poor creature,
So gentle, so easy, so harmless his nature;
On earth by kind Heav’n he surely was sent,
To teach erring mortals the road to content;
Whatever befel him, he bore his hard fate,
Nor envied the steed in his high pamper’d state;
Though homely his fare was, he’d never repine;
On a dock could he breakfast, on thistles could dine;
No matter how coarse or unsavoury his salad,
Content made the flavour suit well with his palate.
Now, Reader, depart, and, as onward you pass,
Reflect on the lesson you’ve heard from an Ass.
On a Henpecked Country Squire. As father Adam first was fool’d,
A case that’s still too common,
Here lies a man a woman rul’d,
The devil rul’d the woman.
On a Potter. How frail is man—how short life’s longest day!
Here lies the worthy Potter, turned to clay!
Whose forming hand, and whose reforming care,
Has left us full of flaws. Vile earthenware!
It was his usual custom in company when he told anything, to ask, d’ye hear? and if any one said no, John would reply, no matter, I’ve said. Death came to John
And whisper’d in his ear,
You must die John,
D’ye hear? Quoth John to Death
The news is bad.
No matter, quoth Death,
I’ve said.
Punning Epitaph. Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Chesterfield, caused this whimsical allusion or pun upon his name to be put upon his grave-stone;—Two cyphers of C. C. and underneath,
Sum quod fui, “I am what I was.”
Oldys thus translates from Camden an epitaph upon a tippling red-nosed ballad maker, of the time of Shakespeare:— Dead drunk, here Elderton doth lie:
Dead as he is, he still is dry;
So of him it may well be said,
Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.
On a Juggler. Death came to see thy tricks, and cut in twain
Thy thread. Why did’st not make it whole again?
To a Magistrate’s Widow. Her husband died, and while she tried
To live behind, could not, and died.
Epitaph on the Parson of a parish. Come let us rejoice merry boys at his fall,
For egad, had he lived he’d a buried us all.
On a Baker. Richard Fuller lies buried here,
Do not withhold the crystal tear,
For when he liv’d he daily fed
Woman and man and child with bread.
But now alas he’s turned to dust,
As thou and I and all soon must,
And lies beneath this turf so green,
Where worms do daily feed on him.
An Original. Here lies fast asleep, awake me who can,
The medley of passion and follies, a Man
Who sometimes lov’d licence and sometimes restraint,
Too much of the sinner, too little of saint;
From quarter to quarter I shifted my tack;
Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack;
But, alas! I soon found the defects of my skill,
And my nostrums in practice proved treacherous still;
From life’s certain ills ’twas in vain to seek ease,
The remedy oft proved another disease;
What in rapture began often ended in sorrow,
And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-morrow;
When each action was o’er and its errors were seen,
Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had been;
My body and mind were so oddly contrived,
That at each other’s failing both parties conniv’d,
Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain,
The body diseas’d paid the debt back again.
Thus coupled together life’s journey they pass’d,
Till they wrangled and jangled and parted at last;
Thus tired and weary, I’ve finished my course,
And glad it is bed time, and things are no worse.
On a Publican. Thomas Thompson’s buried here,
And what is more he’s in his bier,
In life thy bier did thee surround,
And now with thee is in the ground.
On a Porter, who died suddenly under a load. Pack’d up within these dark abodes,
Lies one in life inur’d to loads,
Which oft he carried ’tis well known,
Till Death pass’d by and threw him down. When he that carried loads before,
Became a load which others bore
To this his inn, where, as they say,
They leave him till another day.
On a Publican. A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King’s Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till death my license took away
And put me in this house of clay,
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great and small.
On a Parish Clerk. Here lies, within this tomb so calm,
Old Giles, pray sound his knell,
Who thought no song was like a psalm,
No music like a bell.
Here lies John Adams, who received a thump
Right in the forehead from the parish pump,
Which gave him his quietus in the end,
Tho’ many doctors did his case attend.
On Mr. Cumming. “Give me the best of men,” said Death
To Nature—“quick, no humming,”
She sought the man who lies beneath,
And answered, “Death, he’s Cumming.”
On Sir Philip Sidney. England hath his body, for she it fed,
Netherland his blood, in her defence shed;
The Heavens hath his soul,
The Arts have his fame,
The Soldier his grief,
The World his good name.
There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:— Beneath this stone his own dear child,
Whose gone from we
For ever more unto eternity;
Where we do hope that we shall go to he,
But him can never more come back to we.
On a Chemist. Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamate
With Clay,
In Balneo ArenÆ
Stratum super Stratum,
The Residuum, Terra damnata, and Caput
Mortuum
Of Boyle Godfry, Chemist
And M.D.
A man, who in his earthly Laboratory
Pursued various Processes to obtain
Areanum VitÆ
Or the secret to live;
Also Aurum VitÆ,
Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold.
Alchemist like,
All his Labour and Profection,
As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in Fuomo
When he dissolv’d to his first Principles,
He departed as poor
As the last Drops of an Alembic;
For riches are not poured
On the Adepts of this world.
Though fond of News, he carefully avoided
The Fermentation, Effervescence,
And Decrepitation of this Life.
Full Seventy years his exalted Essence
Was Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras,
But the radical Moisture being exhausted,
The Elixir VitÆ spent,
And exsiccated to a Cuticle,
He could not suspend longer in his Vehicle
But precipitated Gradatim
Per Campanam.
To his Original Dust.
May that light, brighter than Bolognian
Phosphorus, Preserve him from the
Athanor, Empyremna, &
Of the other
World.
Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of
this;
Highly Rectify’d & Volatize
His Ætheral Spirit,
Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this
Globe, place it in a proper Recipient,
Or Chrystalline Orb,
Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin,
Never to be Saturated,
Till the General Resuscitation,
Deflagration, Calcination,
And Sublimation of all Things.
On Mr. Partridge, who died in May. What! kill a partridge in the month of May!
Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?
On Du Bois,
Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel. Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath,
Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.
On Mr. Nightingale, Architect. As the birds were the first of the architect kind,
And are still better builders than men,
What wonders may spring from a Nightingale’s mind,
When St. Paul’s was produced by a Wren.
On Mr. Churchill. Says Tom to Richard, “Churchill’s dead.”
Says Richard, “Tom, you lie;
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die.”
On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist,
Who, several years before his death, lost one of his
nether limbs. Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve,
Though his pickle was true Attic salt;
One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve,
Though his wit was known never to halt.
A most precious limb and a rare precious pate,
With one limb taken off for wise ends;
Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait,
Never failed to take off his best friends:
Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice,
Was his practice for pastime or pelf;
For which ’twere no wonder, if both should rejoice
At the day when he took off himself.
On James Straw, an Attorney. Hic jacet Jacobus Straw,
Who forty years, Sir, followed the law,
And when he died,
The Devil cried,
“Jemmy, gie’s your paw.”
On Robert Sleath. Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to Bishop Hurd. On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath
Passed through the turnpike gate of death.
To him would death no toll abate,
Who stopped the King at Wor’ster gate.
On Ned Purdon. Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free
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.
On Stephen Remnant. Here’s a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death,
Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath.
To mortality this gives a happy release,
For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.
A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and has been frequently printed. From the Cambrian Register, 1795 (Vol. I. p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666. The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of Francis Kynaston. Here lyes, by name, the world’s mother,
By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother;
My grandmother, mother to my mother;
My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother;
My grandfather’s daughter and his mother;
All which may rightly be,
Without the breach of consanguinity.
On Robert Pemberton. Here lies Robin, but not Robin Hood;
Here lies Robin that never did good;
Here lies Robin by heaven forsak’n;
Here lies Robin—the devil may tak’n.
On a Stay Maker. Alive, unnumber’d stays he made,
(He work’d industrious night and day;)
E’en dead he still pursues his trade,
For here his bones will make a stay.
Brevity of life. Man’s life’s a vapour,
And full of woes;
He cuts a caper,
And down he goes.
By Boileau, the Poet. Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows,
Not less for mine, than her repose!
Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife,
Who led a pretty jarring life;
But all is ended—do you see?
He holds his tongue, and so does she.
If drugs and physic could but save
Us mortals from the dreary grave,
’Tis known that I took full enough
Of the apothecaries’ stuff
To have prolonged life’s busy feast
To a full century at least;
But spite of all the doctors’ skill,
Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you’re alive,
I was sent here at twenty-five.
Poor Jerry’s Epitaph. Here lies poor Jerry,
Who always seem’d merry,
But happiness needed.
He tried all he could
To be something good,
But never succeeded.
He married two wives:
The first good, but somewhat quaint;
The second very good—like a saint.
In peace may they rest.
And when they come to heaven,
May they all be forgiven
For marrying such a pest.
On three infants. If you’re disposed to weep for sinners dead,
About these children trouble not your head,
Reserve your grief for them of riper years,
They as has never sinned can’t want no tears.
On a Drunkard. The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead.
He’s top’d his last and reeled to bed.
On a Rum and Milk Drinker. Rum and milk I had in store,
Till my poor belly could hold no more:
It caused me to be so fat,
My death was owing unto that.
On Joseph Crump, a Musician. Once ruddy and plump,
But now a pale lump,
Beneath this safe hump,
Lies honest Joe Crump,
Who wish’d to his neighbours no evil,
Who, tho’ by Death’s thump
He’s laid on his rump,
Yet up he shall jump
When he hears the last trump,
And triumph o’er Death and the Devil.
On Sir Isaac Newton. Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night,
God said, “Let Newton be!” and all was light.
An Attorney. Here lieth one who often lied before,
But now he lies here he lies no more.
On Peter Wilson,
Who was drowned. Peter was in the ocean drown’d,
A careless, hapless creature!
And when his lifeless trunk was found,
It was become Salt Peter.
Here lies the body of an honest man.
And when he died he owed nobody nothing.
Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeare
To diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE.
Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es Stones
And curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.
Underneath this stone doth lie,
As much beauty as could die;
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.
To the memory of Mary Clow, &c. A vertuous wife, a loving mother,
And one esteemed by all that knew her. And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse to the end.
Old Epitaph. As I was so are ye,
As I am You shall be,
That I had that I gave,
That I gave that I have,
Thus I end all my cost,
That I left that I lost.
Epitaph on a Bell Ringer. Stephen & time now are even,
Stephen beat time, now time’s beat Stephen.
Here lies
Elizabeth Wise.
She died of Thunder sent from Heaven
In 1777.
On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox. At once depriv’d of life, lies here,
A family to virtue dear.
Though far remov’d from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Lest one should feel the other’s fall,
Death has, in kindness, seiz’d them all.
George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a few hours before his decease. An application was made by Messrs. Tippens, addressed to the judge “if living, or his executors,” for the payment of a bill. The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours prior to his death, and was as follows:— “Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear’d by you,
Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true,
That I am dead; and, more afflicting still,
My legal assets cannot pay your bill.
To think of this, I am almost broken hearted,
Insolvent I, this earthly life departed;
Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing,
For executors and self, George Hardinge.”
The manner of her death was thus,
She was druv over by a Bus.
Here lies Martha wife of Hugh,
Born at St Ansell’s, buried at Kew,
Children in wedlock they had five,
Three are dead & two are alive,
Those who are living had much rather
Die with the Mother than live with the Father.
“The Body
of
Benjamin Franklin, Printer,
(like the cover of an old book,
its contents torn out,
and stripped of its lettering and gilding),
lies here, food for worms;
yet the work itself shall not be lost;
for it will, as he believed, appear once more
in a new and more beautiful edition,
corrected and amended
by
The Author!”
Singular Epitaph. Careless and thoughtless all my life,
Stranger to every source of strife,
And deeming each grave sage a fool,
The law of nature was my rule.
By which I learnt to duly measure
My portion of desire and pleasure.
’Tis strange that here I lie you see,
For death must have indulged a whim,
At any time t’ have thought of me,
Who never once did think of him.
On Earle the boxer. Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11th of April 1788 gave in.
She lived genteely on a small income.
Epitaph on a Gamester. Here lies a gamester, poor but willing,
Who left the room without a shilling,
Losing each stake, till he had thrown
His last, and lost the game to Death;
If Paradise his soul has won,
’Twas a rare stroke of luck i’faith!
On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years. Here lies who never lied before,
And one who never will lie More,
To which there need be no more said,
Than More the pity she is dead,
For when alive she charmed us More
Than all the Mores just gone before.
On a Wife (by her Husband.) Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife,
In death my comfort, and my plague through life.
Oh! liberty—but soft, I must not boast;
She’ll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!
“Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed, appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:”— A good mother I have been,
Many troubles I have seen,
All my life I’ve done my best,
And so I hope my soul’s at rest.
On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of Peach. by mr. bisset. Death long had wish’d within his reach,
So sweet, so delicate a Peach:
He struck the Tree—the trunk lay mute;
But Angels bore away the Fruit!
Here lies my poor wife,
Without bed or blanket,
But dead as a door nail,
God be thanked.
Epitaph on a violent Scold. My spouse and I full many a year
Liv’d man and wife together,
I could no longer keep her here,
She’s gone—the Lord knows whither. Of tongue she was exceeding free,
I purpose not to flatter,
Of all the wives I e’er did see,
None sure like her could chatter. Her body is disposed of well,
A comely grave doth hide her,
I’m sure her soul is not in hell,
For old Nick could ne’er abide her. Which makes me guess she’s gone aloft,
For in the last great thunder,
Methought I heard her well known voice
Rending the skies asunder.
On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep. Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife,
Or, in one word, here lies a scolding wife;
Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut,
He durst not for his ears have touched the slut.
Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew,
If I said I regretted her—I should lie too.
On a Scold. Here lies, thank God, a woman who
Quarrell’d and stormed her whole life through,
Tread gently o’er her mould’ring form,
Or else you’ll raise another storm.
On a Wife (by her Husband). Here lies my poor wife, much lamented,
She’s happy, and I’m contented.
One was our thought, One life we fought,
One rest we both intended,
Our bodies have to sleepe one grave,
Our soules to God ascended.
Conjugal Epitaph. Here rest my spouse, no pair through life,
So equal liv’d as we did;
Alike we shared perpetual strife,
Nor knew I rest till she did.
An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman.
Another version.
(From an old Book of Job.) We lived one and twenty yeare,
Like man and wife together;
I could no longer have her heere,
She’s gone, I know not whither.
If I could guesse, I doe professe,
(I speak it not to flatter)
Of all the women in the worlde,
I never would come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave doth hide her,
And sure her soule is not in hell,
The fiend could ne’er abide her.
I think she mounted up on hie,
For in the last great thunder,
Mee thought I heard her voice on hie,
Rending the clouds in sunder.
Within this place a vertvous virgin lies,
Much like those virgins that were counted wise,
Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt,
Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt,
And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay,
Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day,
When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come,
To take her with him to the wedding roome.
Amy Mitchell,
1724 aged 19. Here lies a virgin cropt in youth,
A Xtian both in name and truth,
Forbear to mourn, she is not dead,
But gone to marry Christ her head.
On a Woman who had three Husbands. Here lies the body of Mary Sextone,
Who pleased three men, and never vexed one,
That she can’t say beneath the next stone.
Marianne S--. Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandÆ
Inane hoc, tamen ultimum,
Amoris consecrat testimonium,
Maritus, heu! superstes.
The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral inscriptions. Short was her life,
Longer will be her rest;
Christ call’d her home,
Because he thought it best. For she was born to die,
To lay her body down,
And young she did fly,
Into the world unknown. 5 years & 9 months.
Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who when she lived did naught but scold.
Peace! wake her not for now she’s still,
She had, but now I have my will.
Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her tombstone after her decease:— I now have fallen asleep—my troubles gone,
For while on earth, I had full many a one,
When I get up again—as Parson says,
I hope that I shall see some better days.
If Husband he should make a second suit
His second wife will find that he’s a brute.
He often made my poor sad heart to sigh,
And often made me weep from one poor eye,
The other he knocked out by a violent blow,
As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know.
I hope he will not serve his next rib so,
But if he should, will put the two together,
And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.
On Jemmy Jewell. ’Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh,
When I’m to write an epitaph.
Here lies the bones of a rakish Timmy
Who was a Jewell & a Jemmy. He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings,
And twice ten thousand pretty things;
Now he supplies Old Nick with fuel,
And there’s an end of Jemmy Jewell.
On Thomas Knowles & his Wife. Thomas Knolles lies under this stone,
And his wife Isabell: flesh and bone
They were together nineteen year,
And ten children they had in fear.
His fader & he to this church
Many good deed they did worch.
Example by him may ye see,
That this world is but vanity;
For whether he be small or great,
All shall turn to worms’ meat;
This said Thomas was lay’d on beere,
The eighth day the month Fevree,
The date of Jesu Christ truly,
Anno M.C.C.C. five & forty.
We may not pray; heartily pray he,
For our souls, Pater Noster and Ave.
The swarer of our pains lissed to be,
Grant us thy holy trinity. Amen.
On one stone, exhibiting a copy of that very rare inscription beginning with “Afflictions sore,” the second line affords the following choice specimen of orthography:—“Physicians are in vain.” Think nothing strange,
Chance happens unto all;
My lot’s to-day,
To-morrow yours may fall.
Great afflictions I have had,
Which wore my strength away;
Then I was willing to submit
Unto this bed of clay.
On Burbridge, the Tragedian. On the late Mr. Suett. Here lies to mix with kindred earth,
A child of wit, of Glee and Mirth;
Hush’d are those powers which gave delight;
And made us laugh in reason’s spite:
Thy “gibes and jests shall now no more
Set all the rabble in a roar.”
Sons of Mirth, and Humour come,
And drop a tear on Suett’s Tomb;
Nor ye alone, but all who view it,
Weep and Exclaim, Alas Poor Suett.
On the Tomb of a Murdered Man. O holy Jove! my murderers, may they die
A death like mine—my buriers live in joy!
On a Magistrate who had formerly been a Barber. Here lies Justice;—be this his truest praise:
He wore the wig which once he made,
And learnt to shave both ways.
To the Memory of Nell Batchelour,
The Oxford Pye-woman. Here into the dust,
The mouldering crust
Of Eleanor Batchelour’s shoven;
Well versed in the arts
Of pyes, custards, and tarts,
And the lucrative skill of the oven.
When she’d lived long enough
She made her last puff—
A puff by her husband much praised;
Now here she does lie,
And makes a dirt-pye,
In hopes that her crust may be raised.
On a Volunteer. Here lies the gallant Captn King,
He’s finished Life’s review;
No more he’ll stand on either wing,
For now he flies on two. He was a gallant Volunteer,
But now his Rifle’s rusty;
No more at drill will he appear,
His uniform is dusty. No more he’ll hear the Bugle’s sound
Till Bugler Angels blow it,
Nor briskly march along the ground,
His body lies below it. Let’s hope when at the great parade
We all meet in a cluster,
With many another martial blade
He’ll readily pass muster. Seraphic sabre in his fist,
On heavenly drill reflective,
May he be placed upon the list,
Eternally effective.
On a Sailor.
Written by his messmate. Here is honest Jack—to the lobsters a prey,
Who lived like a sailor free hearty and gay,
His riggings well fitted, his sides close and tight,
His bread room well furnished, his mainmast upright;
When Death, like a pirate built solely for plunder,
Thus hail’d Jack in a voice loud as thunder,
“Drop your peak my old boy, and your topsails throw back!
For already too long you’ve remain’d on that tack.”
Jack heard the dread call, and without more ado,
His sails flatten’d in and his bark she broach’d to.
Laconic Epitaph. On a Seaman. My watch perform’d, lo here at rest I lay,
Not to turn out till resurrection day.
Laconic Epitaph on a Sailor. I caught a feaver—weather plaguey hot,
Was boarded by a Leech—and now am gone to pot.
On an honest Sailor. Whether sailor or not, for a moment avast;
Poor Tom’s mizen topsail is laid to the mast;
He’ll never turn out, or more heave the lead;
He’s now all aback, nor will sails shoot ahead;
He ever was brisk, &, though now gone to wreck,
When he hears the last whistle he’ll jump upon deck.
Epitaph on a Sailor. Tom Taugh lies below, as gallant arous.
On a Man who was killed by a blow from a Sky Rocket. Here I lie,
Killed by a Sky
Rocket in my eye.
On a Post Boy, who was killed by the overturning of a Chaise. Here I lays,
Killed by a Chaise.
Here lies I no wonder I’se dead,
For a broad wheeled Waggon went over my head
On a Miser. Here lies one for medicine would not give
A little gold, and so his life he lost;
I fancy now he’d wish to live again,
Could he but know how much his funeral cost.
On a Miser. Iron was his chest,
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,
And his heart was more.
On a Miser. Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried “Jam satis;”
’Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.
On an Old Covetous Usurer. You’d have me say, here lies T. U.
But I do not believe it;
For after Death there’s something due,
And he’s gone to receive it.
On an Usurer. Here lies ten in the hundred
In the ground fast ram’d,
’Tis an hundred to ten,
But his soul is damned.
Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue Officers. Here I lies
Killed by the XII.
On a Miser. Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied plenty to himself, and assistance to his friends, and relief to the poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.
On John D’Amory, the Usurer. Beneath this verdant hillock lies
Demar the wealthy and wise.
His Heirs, that he might safely rest,
Have put his carcase in a Chest.
The very Chest, in which, they say
His other Self, his Money, lay.
And if his Heirs continue kind
To that dear Self he left behind,
I dare believe that Four in Five
Will think his better self alive.
On William Clay. A long affliction did my life attend,
But time with patience brought it to an end,
And now my body rests with Mother clay,
Until the joyful resurrection day.
Written on Montmaur,
A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment. In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur of
happy memory, awaiting his judgement.
On an Invalid.
Written by Himself. Here lies a head that often ached;
Here lie two hands that always shak’d;
Here lies a brain of odd conceit;
Here lies a heart that often beat;
Here lie two eyes that dimly wept,
And in the night but seldom slept;
Here lies a tongue that whining talk’d;—
Here lie two feet that feebly walked;
Here lie the midriff and the breast,
With loads of indigestion prest;
Here lives the liver full of bile,
That ne’er secreted proper chyle;
Here lie the bowels, human tripes,
Tortured with wind and twisting gripes;
Here lies the livid dab, the spleen,
The source of life’s sad tragic scene,
That left side weight that clogs the blood,
And stagnates Nature’s circling flood;
Here lies the back, oft racked with pains,
Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins;
Here lies the skin by scurvy fed,
With pimples and irruptions red;
Here lies the man from top to toe,
That fabric fram’d for pain and woe.
On Sir John Vanbrugh. Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
Laid many heavy loads on thee.
The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:— “Ten in the hundred lies here ingraved:
’Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved:
If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb?
Oh! oh! quoth the devil, ’tis my John-a-Combe.”
On Dr. Fuller. Here lies Fuller’s earth.
On a Card-maker. His card is cut; long days he shuffled through
The game of Life; he dealt as others do.
Though he by honours tells not its amount,
When the last trump is played his tricks will count.
On a Man and his Wife. Stay, bachelor, if you have wit,
A wonder to behold:
Husband and wife, in one dark pit,
Lie still and never scold. Tread softly tho’ for fear she wakes;—
Hark, she begins already:
You’ve hurt my head;—my shoulder akes;
These sots can ne’er move steady. Ah friend, with happy freedom blest!
See how my hopes miscarry’d:
Not death can give me rest,
Unless you die unmarry’d.
Here lie the remains of Thomas Woodhen,
The most amiable of Husbands, and the most excellent of men. “N.B.—The name is Woodcock, but it would’nt come in rhyme!”
On Marshal Sare. N.B.—The figures are to be pronounced in French as un, deux, trois, etc. | Ses vertus le feront admirÉ de chac | 1 | | Il avait des Rivaux, mais il triompha | 2 | | Les Batailles qu’il gagna sont au nombre de | 3 | | Pour Louis son grand coeur se serait mis en | 4 | | En amour, c’Était peu pour lui d’aller À | 5 | | Nous l’aurions s’il n’eut fait que le berger Tir’ | 6 | | Pour avoir trop souvent passÉ douze “Hie-ja” | 7 | | Il a cessÉ de vivre en Decembre | 8 | | Strasbourg contient son corps dans un Tombeau tout | 9 | | Pour tant de “Te Deum” pas un “De profun” | 10 | | | --- | | He died at the age of | 55 | a. Tircis, the name of a celebrated Arcadian shepherd. b. A great personage of the day remarked that it was a pity after the Marshal had by his victories been the cause of so many “Te Deums,” that it would not be allowed (the Marshal dying in the Lutheran faith) to chant one “de profundis,” over his remains. On Thomas Jones. Here for the nonce,
Came Thomas Jones,
In St. Giles’s Church to lye;
Non Welch before,
None Welchman more,
Till Show Clerk dy. He tole his bell,
He ring his knell.
He dyed well,
He’s sav’d from hell,
And so farewell, Tom Jones.
On Dr. Walker, who wrote a book called “Particles:”— Here lie Walker’s Particles.
The tomb of Keats the Poet. This grave contains
all
that was mortal
of a
young English Poet,
who
on his death bed,
in the bitterness of his heart
at the malicious power of his enemies,
desired these
words to be engraved on his tombstone:
“Here lies one
whose name was writ in water.”
February 24, 1821.
On Mr. Quin. Says Epicure Quin, Should the devil in hell,
In fishing for men take delight,
His hook bait with ven’son, I love it so well,
Indeed I am sure I should bite.
Here lies Sir John Plumpudding of the Grange,
Who hanged himself one morning for a change.
On John Bell. I Jocky Bell o’ Braikenbrow, lyes under this stane,
Five of my awn sons laid it on my wame;
I liv’d aw my dayes, but sturt or strife,
Was man o’ my meat, and master o’ my wife.
If you done better in your time, than I did in mine,
Take this stane aff my wame, and lay it on o’ thine.
On Mr. Havard, Comedian. “An honest man’s the noblest work of God.” Havard from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
An honest man—beloved as soon as known;
However defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly played his part!
The noblest character he acted well,
And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.
On Robin Masters, Undertaker. Here lieth Robin Masters—Faith ’twas hard
To take away our honest Robin’s breath;
Yet surely Robin was full well prepared,
Robin was always looking out for death.
On an Undertaker. Subdued by death, here death’s great herald lies,
And adds a trophy to his victories;
Yet sure he was prepared, who, while he’d breath,
Made it his business to look for death.
On a Cobler. Death at a cobler’s door oft made a stand,
And always found him on the mending hand;
At last came Death, in very dirty weather,
And ripp’d the sole from off the upper leather.
Death put a trick upon him, and what was’t?
The cobler called for’s awl, Death brought his last.
On a Dustman. Beneath yon humble clod, at rest
Lies Andrew, who, if not the best,
Was not the very worst man;
A little rakish, apt to roam;
But not so now, he’s quite at home,
For Andrew was a Dustman.
Here lies the body of John Cole,
His master loved him like his soul;
He could rake hay—none could rake faster,
Except that raking dog, his master.
Mr. Langford, Auctioneer. So, so, Master Langford, the hammer of Death
Hath knock’d out your brains, and deprived you of breath;
’Tis but tit for tat, he who puts up the town,
By Devil or Death must at last be knock’d down.
On a man named Stone. Jerusalem’s curse was not fulfilled in me,
For here a stone upon a Stone you see.
On Thomas Day. Here lies Thomas Day,
Lately removed from over the way.
Epitaph by Burns.
(On a man choked by a piece of bread!) Here I lie, killed by a crumb,
That wouldn’t go down, nor wouldn’t up come.
On John Treffry, Esq. Here in this Chancel do I lye,
Known by the name of John Treffry.
Being born & made for to die;
So must thou, friend, as well as I.
Therefore good works be sure to try,
But chiefly love & Charity;
And still on them with faith rely,
To be happy eternally.
This was put up during his life, who was a whimsical man. He had his grave dug, & lay down and swore in it, to show the sexton a novelty, i.e., a man swearing in his grave. On -- Hatt. By Death’s impartial scythe was mown
Poor Hatt—he lies beneath this stone;
On him misfortune oft did frown,
Yet Hatt ne’er wanted for a crown;
When many years of constant wear
Had made his beaver somewhat bare,
Death saw, and pitying his mishap,
Has given him here a good long nap.
Here I, Thomas Wharton, do lie,
With Lucifer under my head,
And Nelly my wife hard bye,
And Nancy as cold as lead. O, how can I speak without dread
Who could my sad fortune abide?
With one devil under my head,
And another laid close on each side.
On William Jones, a Bone Collector Here lie the bones of William Jones,
Who when alive collected bones,
But Death, that grisly bony spectre,
That most amazing bone collector,
Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy,
That here he lies in bon fide.
The late Rev. John Sampson, of Kendal.
Sacrum In memoriam viri doctissimi et clerici, Joannis Sampson,
olim hujusce sacelli ministri, itemque ludi literarii apud
Congalum triginta septem ferÈ annos magistri seduli;
hoc marmor ponendum quidam discipulus prÆceptorem
merens curavit.
Ob: An: Ætatis suÆ LXXVII; A.D. MDCCCXLIII.
Foris juxta januam e dextr introeunti sepultum est
corpus.
Problemata plurima geometrica proposuit ac solvit; ad
hÆc accedunt versus haud pauci, latinÈ et manu suÂ
scripti; quorum exemplum infrÀ insculptum est; adeo
ut Christiano tum mentem, tum viri fidem cognoscere
liceat. “a?tÒ? ?f?.” “Quandocunque sophos clarus sua dogmata profert,
“Nil valet a?tÒ? ?f?, ni documenta daret;”
“At mihi cÙm Christus loquitur, verum, via, vita,
“Tum vero fateor sufficit a?tÒ? ?f?.”
Epitaph on the Mareschal Comte de Ranzan, a Swede, who accompanied Oxenstiern to Paris, and was taken into the French service by Louis XIII. He died of hydrophobia in 1650. He had been in innumerable battles, had lost an eye and two limbs, and his body was found to be entirely covered with scars. Stop, passenger! this stone below
Lies half the body of Ranzan:
The other moiety’s scattered far
And wide o’er many a field of war;
For to no land the hero came,
On which he shed not blood and fame.
Mangled or maim’d each meaner part,
One thing remain’d entire—his heart.
At Arlington, near Paris. Here lie
Two grandmothers, with their two granddaughters
Two husbands with their two wives,
Two fathers with their two daughters,
Two mothers with their two sons,
Two maidens with their two mothers,
Two sisters with their two brothers.
Yet but six corps in all lie buried here,
All born legitimate, & from incest clear.
The above may be thus explained:— Two widows, that were sisters-in-law, had each a son, who married each other’s mother, and by them had each a daughter. Suppose one widow’s name Mary, and her son’s name John, and the other widow’s name Sarah, and her son’s James; this answers the fourth line. Then suppose John married Sarah, and had a daughter by her, and James married Mary, and had a daughter also, these marriages answer the first, second, third, fifth, and sixth lines of the epitaph. Sudden and unexpected was the end
Of our esteemed and beloved friend.
He gave to all his friends a sudden shock
By one day falling into Sunderland Dock.
At Sakiwedel. Traveller, hurry not, as if you were going post-haste; in the most rapid journey you must stop at the post house. Here repose the bones of MATTHIAS SCHULZEN, the most humble and most faithful Postmaster, for upwards of Twenty-five years, of His Majesty, Frederick, King of Prussia. He arrived 1655; and afterwards travelled with distinction in life’s pilgrimage, by walking courses in the Schools and Universities. He carefully performed his duties as a Christian, and when the post of misfortune came, he behaved according to the letter of divine consolation. His body, however, ultimately being enfeebled, he was prepared to attend the signal given by the post of death; when his soul set off on her pleasing journey for Paradise, the 2nd of June, 1711; and his body afterwards was committed to this silent tomb. Reader, in thy pilgrimage through life, be mindful of the prophetic post of Death!
Dear Husband, now my life is past,
And I am stuck in Earth so fast,
I pray no sorrow for me take,
But love my Children, for my sake;—
Hamburgh. “O Mors Cur Deus Negat Vitam
be te bis nos bis nam.”
Solution. O! Superbe! Mors Super--te!
Cur Superbis?
Deus Supernos! negat Superbis
Vitam Supernam.
On the Duke of Burgundy’s tomb in St. George’s Church, near CondÉ:— “Carolus hoc busto BurgundÆ gloria gentis,
Conditur, EuropÆ qui fuit ante timor.”
Near the left wall in the Protestant-ground at Rome is a monument to Lord Barrington, and a tombstone to the infant child of Mr. William Lambton:— Go thou, white in thy soul, and fill a throne
Of innocence and purity in heaven!
Silo Princeps Fecit. | T | I | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | I | T | | I | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | I | | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | L | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | L | I | L | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | L | I | S | I | L | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | L | I | L | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | L | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | O | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | P | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | R | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | | I | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | I | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | I | | T | I | C | E | F | S | P | E | C | N | C | E | P | S | F | E | C | I | T | At the entrance of the Church of St. Salvador in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, is a most remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named Silo, with this very curious Latin inscription which may be read 270 ways by beginning with the capital letter S in the centre. On a tombstone in the churchyard at Hochheim, a village where one of the best species of Rhenish is produced, and from the name of which our generic Hock is derived:— This grave holds Caspar Schink, who came to dine,
And taste the noblest vintage of the Rhine;
Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank,
Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.
One only comfort have we in the case,—
The trump will raise him in the proper place.
Here lies Peg, that drunken sot,
Who dearly loved her jug and pot;
There she lies, as sure as can be,
She killed herself by drinking brandy.
Calcutta. Bene:
AT. HT, Hi S: ST--
Oneli: E: Skat. .
He, Ri, N. eg. Rayc--
(Hang’d)
. F . R.
O! mab. V, Syli, Fetol--
IF . . Ele:
(SSCL)
Ayb... Year.
. Than.
Dcl--Ays
: Hego.
Therpel:
. Fand.
No, WS. He: stur
N’D to Ear,
TH, h, Ersel
Fy! EWE: EP....
In: G. F. R: IE: N
D. S. L.
Et, mea D
V: I
Sea: ...... Batey.
O! V: rg.....
RiE .... Fan.
. D. D.
RYY. O! V.R.E
Yes. F.O.R W: H
. ATa.
Vai .... LS. a. flo.
O! do. F. Tea. R.
SW: Hok: No: WS:
Buti. nar. U.
No! Fy: Ear, SI: N.
SO: Metal:
L. Pit. c.
HERO: . . r. Bro, a:
D. P.
ANS, Hei
N. H.
Ers. Hop. ma:
Y. B.
Ea: Gai .... N. .
The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society. His last steak done; his fire rak’d out and dead,
Dished for the worms himself, lies honest Ned:
We, then, whose breasts bore all his fleshly toils,
Took all his bastings, and shared all his broils;
Now, in our turn, a mouthful carve and trim,
And dress at Phoebus’ fire, one scrap for him:—
His heart which well might grace the noblest grave,
Was grateful, patient, modest, just, and brave;
And ne’er did earth’s wide maw a morsel gain
Of kindlier juices or more tender grain;
His tongue, where duteous friendship humbly dwelt,
Charmed all who heard the faithful zeal he felt;
Still to whatever end his chops he mov’d,
’Twas all well seasoned, relished, and approv’d:
This room his heaven!—When threatening Fate drew nigh
The closing shade that dimm’d his ling’ring eye,
His last fond hopes, betray’d by many a tear,
Were—That his life’s last spark might glimmer here;
And the last words that choak’d his parting sigh—
“Oh! at your feet, dear masters, let me die!”
Ann Short. Ann Short, O Lord, of praising thee,
Nothing I can do is right;
Needy and naked, poor I be,
Short, Lord, I am of sight:
How short I am of love and grace!
Of everything I’m short,
Renew me, then I’ll follow peace
Through good and bad report.
Under this stone lies Meredith Morgan,
Who blew the bellows of our Church organ;
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,
Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling;
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Tho’ he gave our old organist many a blast.
No puffer was he,
Tho’ a capital blower;
He could fill double G,
And now lies a note lower.
In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably placed there as a memento to Italian Toby Philpots:— “Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of morning in a sober state. Even my bones are now thirsty. Stranger, sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come. Farewell Drinkers!”
Over a grave in Prince Edward’s Island. Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb,
Killed by a tree that fell slap bang.
Here lies the body of Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one;
Pray for the soul of Gabriel John,
You may if you please,
Or let it alone;
For its all one
To Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one.
Here lies John Bunn,
Who was killed by a gun;
His name wasn’t Bun, his real name was Wood,
But Wood wouldn’t rhyme with gun, so I thought Bun should.
In Memory of
THE STATE LOTTERY,
the last of a long line
whose origin in England commenced
in the year 1569,
which, after a series of tedious complaints,
Expired
on the
18th day of October, 1826.
During a period of 257 years, the family
flourished under the powerful protection
of the
British Parliament;
the minister of the day continuing to
give them his support for the
improvement of the revenue.
As they increased, it was found that their
continuance corrupted the morals,
and encouraged a spirit
of speculation and gambling among the
lower classes of the people;
thousands of whom fell victims to their
insinuating and tempting allurements.
Many philanthropic individuals
in the Senate
at various times for a series of years,
pointed out their baneful influence
without effect,
His Majesty’s Ministers
still affording them their countenance
and protection.
The British Parliament
being at length convinced of their
mischievous tendency,
His Majesty George IV.,
on the 9th July, 1823,
pronounced sentence of condemnation
on the whole race;
from which time they were almost
Neglected by the British Public.
Very great efforts were made by the
Partisans and friends of the family to
excite
the public feeling in favour of the last
of the race, in vain:
it continued to linger out the few
remaining
moments of its existence without attention
or sympathy, and finally terminated
its career, unregretted by any
virtuous mind.
’Twas by a fall I caught my death;
No man can tell his time or breath;
I might have died as soon as then
If I had had physician men.
On a Grocer. Garret some call’d him,
but that was too hye;
His name is Garrard
who now here doth lie;
Weepe not for him,
since he is gone before
To heaven, where Grocers
there are many more.
THE END. F. Pickton, Printer, Perry’s Place, 29 Oxford Street.
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