Quaint Epitaphs Part 13

Beneath these stones repose the bones of Theodosious Grimm.

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

(On a butcher whose name was Lamb.)

Beneath this stone lies Lamb asleep, Who died a Lamb who lived a sheep.

Many a lamb and sheep he slaughtered But cruel Death the scene has altered.

Rose Clifford.

This tomb doth here enclose the world's most beauteous Rose.

Here lies John Quebecca precentor to My Lord the King.

When he is admitted to the choir of angels whose society he will embellish and where he will distinguish himself by his powers of song--G.o.d shall say to the angels--

Cease ye calves! and let me hear John Quebecca, the precentor of My Lord the King.

ST. BOTOLPH'S.

A traveller lies here at rest Who life's rough ocean tossed on.

His many virtues all expressed Thus simply--"_I'm from Boston_."

ST. CLAIR, CANADA.

On a brickmaker.

Keep death and judgment always in your eye Or else the devil off with you will fly And in his kiln with burning brimstone ever fry.

If you neglect the narrow road to seek Christ will respect you like a half burned brick.

Patrick Bay, Innholder.

Killed by an ignorant Physician.

Not Fate or Death but doctor Rowe Advanced to give the deadly blow That smote me to the shades below.

Had Death alone approached too nigh, Had Fate or Nature bid me die, I must have borne it patiently.

But to be robbed of life and ease By such infernal quacks as these And pay, beside their modest fees!

Now folks that travel by this way, Pointing toward my tomb shall say, "There lies the bones of Patrick Bay-- Who ne'er a cheerful gla.s.s denied, All force of arms, and grog defied, Yet by a vile Jack Pudding died."

John Scott Brewer.

Poor John Scott is buried here Tho' once he was both hale and stout.

Death stretched him on his bitter bier, In another world he hops about.

Received of Philip Harding his borrowed earth July 4th 1673.

The Duke of Norfolk, a great whist player.

(By Sheridan.)

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

Here lies a Cardinal who wrought Both good and evil in his time.

The good he did was good for naught Not so the evil--that was prime.

Elihu Yale, the founder of Yale College at New Haven, lies buried in Wrenham, Wales. His monument bears this inscription:

Born in America, in Europe bred In Africa traveled in Asia wed, Where long he lived and thrived And at London died.

Much good, some ill he did so hope all's even And his soul through mercy is gone to Heaven.

You that survive and read this tale take care, For this most certain event to prepare; Where blest in peace the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the silent dust.