An old American epitaph:
Under this sod, and under these trees,
Lieth the body of Samuel Pease;
He is not in this hole, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul and went up to God.
* * * * *
Another version:
Under this sod, beneath these trees,
Lyeth the pod of Solomon Pease.
Pease is not here, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul, which went straight to his God.
* * * * *
Here lies the body of Johnny Haskell
A lying, thieving, cheating rascal;
He always lied, and now he lies,
He has no soul and cannot rise.
* * * * *
An Irishman wrote the following oft-quoted lines for his epitaph:
Here I lays,
Paddy O'Blase;
My body quite at its aise is,
With the tip of my nose
And the points of my toes
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.
* * * * *
In Ballyporen (Ire.) churchyard, on Teague O'Brian, written by himself:
Here I at length repose,
My spirit now at aise is;
With the tips of my toes
And the point of my nose
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.
* * * * *
Here lies Richard Fothergill who met a violent death. He was
shot by a colt's revolver, old kind, brass mounted, and of such is
the kingdom of heaven.
* * * * *
A Cornwall churchyard is enriched with the following dainty verses:
Here lies entombed one Roger Morton,
Whose sudden death was early brought on;
Trying one day his corn to mow off,
The razor slipped and cut his toe off.
The toe, or rather what it grew to,
An inflammation quickly flew to;
The parts they took to mortifying,
And poor dear Roger took to dying.
* * * * *
The death angel struck Alexander McGlue
And gave him protracted repose;
He wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe
And had a pink wart on his nose.
No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space
Over on the evergreen shore.
His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
At precisely a quarter past four.
* * * * *
At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:
He lived one hundred and five,
Sanguine and strong;
A hundred to five,
You live not so long.
Dy'd March 4, 1687.
* * * * *
This is all that remains of poor Ben Hough
He had forty-nine years and that was enough.
Of worldly goods he had his share,
And now he's gone to the Devil's snare.
* * * * *
In an old cemetery in Lyme, Conn.:
Close behind this stone
Here lies alone
Captain Reynolds Marvin,
Expecting his wife
When ends her life,
And we both are freed from sarvin'.
* * * * *
Here lies the body of Captain Gervase Scrope, of the family of
the Scropes of Bilton, in the county of York, who departed this life
26th August, Anno Domini 1705, aged 66.
An epitaph written by himself, in the agony and doloroes paines
of the gout, and died soon after.
Here lies an old toss'd tennis ball.
Was racketted from spring to fall.
With so much heat and so much frost,
Time's arms for shame grew ty'rd at last.
Four kings in camps he truly served,
And from his loyalty ne'er swerved.
Father ruin'd, the son slighted,
And from the Crown ne'er requited.
Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood,
Was too well known, but did no good.
With long campaigns and paines o' th' Gout,
He could no longer hold it out.
Always a restless life he led,
Never at quiet till quite dead.
He married in his latter days
One who exceeds the common praise;
But wanting health still to make known
Her true affection and his own,
Death kindly came, all wants supply'd,
By giving Rest which life deny'd.
* * * * *
From a tombstone near Williamsport, Penn.:
Sacred to the Memory of
HENRY HARRIS,
Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris
And Jane his Wife.
Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt in his bowels.
Peaceable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, and
respected by all who knew him, and went to the world where horses
don't kick, where sorrow and weeping is no more.
* * * * *