Gleanings in Graveyards Part 40

"Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear'd by you, Alas! the melancholy circ.u.mstance is true, That I am dead; and, more afflicting still, My legal a.s.sets 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, G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l, 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 _s.l.u.t_.

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 G.o.d, 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.