Gleanings in Graveyards Part 38

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 Pa.s.sed 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 d.a.m.nable 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.