Quaint Epitaphs

My cousin Jane and two uncles, dear.
My father perished with inflammation of the eyes.
My sister dropped dead in a nunnery.
But the reason why I am here interred according to my thinking,
Is owing to my good living and hard drinking,
If therefore, good Christians, you wish to live long
Don't drink to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong.

Beneath this monumental stone
Lies half a ton of flesh and bone.

Shakspeare

Good friends for Jesus' sake forbear
To stir the dust enclosed here.
Blest be the man who spares these stones
And cursed be he who moves my bones.

Nova Scotia.

Here lies old twenty five per cent.
The more he had the more he lent.
The more he had the more he craved,
Great God, can his poor soul be saved?

Mt. Park Cemetery, Montreal.

Fred McKernan, Aged three years

Johnie wants to know where do you now stay
Or with whom do you now play,
Or where do you roam?
For the little iron cot
Your poor mother bought
Still waits for you at home.

Folkstone.

Mrs David Stuart

For twenty years and eight I lived a maiden's life
And five and thirty years I was a married wife.
And in that space of time eight children I did bear,
Four sons, four daughters who I ever loved most dear;
Three of that number as the Scriptures run,
Preached up the way to Heaven—and Hell to shun.

Maiden Lillard,

A young Scotch woman, who at the battle of Ancrum, 1545, distinguished herself by her extraordinary valor.

Fair Maiden Lillard lies under this sod.
Little was her statue but great was her fame.
Upon the English loons she laid many thumps,
And when her legs were cut off she fought upon her stumps.
Here lies a man who all his mortal life
Spent mending clocks, but could not mend his wife.
The larum of his bell was ne'er so shrill
As was her tongue, aye, clacking like a mill.
But now he's gone—oh whither none can tell
But hope beyond the sound of Matty's bell.

Paris.

Adah Isaac Menkin

"Thou knowest."

Lord Byron's epitaph on his Newfoundland dog at Newstead

"To mark a friend's remains
These stones arise.
I never knew but one
And here he lies."

Manchester, England.

Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,
His age was five times ten.
He ne'er did good nor ever would
Had he lived as long again.

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