Curious Epitaphs, Collected from the Graveyards of Great Britain and Ireland.

 
Adieu, my friend, my thread of life is spun;
The diamond will not cut, the solder will not run;
My body’s turned to ashes, my grief and troubles past,
I’ve left no one to worldly care – and I shall rise at last.
 

On a dyer, from the church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth, we have as follows: —

 
Here lies a man who first did dye,
When he was twenty four,
And yet he lived to reach the age,
Of hoary hairs, fourscore.
But now he’s gone, and certain ’tis
He’ll not dye any more.
 

In Sleaford churchyard, on Henry Fox, a weaver, the following lines are inscribed: —

 
Of tender thread this mortal web is made,
The woof and warp and colours early fade;
When power divine awakes the sleeping dust,
He gives immortal garments to the just.
 

Our next, epitaph from Weston, is placed over the remains of a useful member of society in his time: —

 
Here lies entomb’d within this vault so dark,
A tailor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and parish clerk;
Death snatch’d him hence, and also from him took
His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer-book.
He could not work, nor fight, – what then?
He left the world, and faintly cried, “Amen!”
 

On an Oxford bellows-maker, the following lines were written: —

 
Here lyeth John Cruker, a maker of bellowes,
His craftes-master and King of good fellowes;
Yet when he came to the hour of his death,
He that made bellowes, could not make breath.
 

The next epitaph, on Joseph Blakett, poet and shoemaker of Seaham, is said to be from Byron’s pen: —

 
Stranger! behold interr’d together
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl —
You’ll find his relics in a stall.
His work was neat, and often found
Well-stitched and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly – where the bard is laid
We cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet he is happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phœbus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?
For character – he did not lack it,
And if he did – ’twere shame to Black it!
 

The following lines are on a cobbler: —

 
Death at a cobbler’s door oft made a stand,
But always found him on the mending hand;
At length Death came, in very dirty weather,
And ripp’d the soul from off the upper leather:
The cobbler lost his all, – Death gave his last,
And buried in oblivion all the past.
 

Respecting Robert Gray, a correspondent writes: He was a native of Taunton, and at an early age he lost his parents, and went to London to seek his fortune. Here, as an errand boy, he behaved so well, that his master took him apprentice, and afterwards set him up in business, by which he made a large fortune. In his old age he retired from trade and returned to Taunton, where he founded a hospital. On his monument is the following inscription: —

 
Taunton bore him; London bred him;
Piety train’d him; Virtue led him;
Earth enrich’d him; Heaven possess’d him;
Taunton bless’d him; London bless’d him:
This thankful town, that mindful city,
Share his piety and pity,
What he gave, and how he gave it,
Ask the poor, and you shall have it.
Gentle reader, may Heaven strike
Thy tender heart to do the like;
And now thy eyes have read his story,
Give him the praise, and God the glory.
 

He died at the age of 65 years, in 1635.

In Rotherham churchyard the following is inscribed on a miller: —

In memory of

Edward Swair,

who departed this life, June 16, 1781

 
Here lies a man which Farmers lov’d
Who always to them constant proved;
Dealt with freedom, Just and Fair —
An honest miller all declare.
 

On a Bristol baker we have the following: —

Here lies Tho. Turar, and Mary, his wife. He was twice Master of the Company of Bakers, and twice Churchwarden of this parish. He died March 6, 1654. She died May 8th, 1643.

 
Like to the baker’s oven is the grave,
Wherein the bodyes of the faithful have
A setting in, and where they do remain
In hopes to rise, and to be drawn again;
Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead,
Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.
 

Here are some witty lines on a carpenter named John Spong, who died 1739, and is buried in Ockham churchyard: —

 
Who many a sturdy oak has laid along,
Fell’d by Death’s surer hatchet, here lies John Spong.
Post oft he made, yet ne’er a place could get
And lived by railing, tho’ he was no wit.
Old saws he had, although no antiquarian;
And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.
Long lived he Ockham’s favourite architect,
And lasting as his fame a tomb t’ erect,
In vain we seek an artist such as he,
Whose pales and piles were for eternity.
 

On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of Lincoln, we have found: —

 
Beneath this stone, facetious wight
Lies all that’s left of Poor Joe Wright;
Few heads with knowledge more informed,
Few hearts with friendship better warmed;
With ready wit and humour broad,
He pleased the peasant, squire, and lord;
Until grim death, with visage queer,
Assumed Joe’s trade of Auctioneer,
Made him the Lot to practise on,
With “going, going,” and anon
He knocked him down to “Poor Joe’s gone!”
 

In Wimbledon churchyard is the grave of John Martin, a natural son of Don John Emanuel, King of Portugal. He was sent to this country about the year 1712, to be out of the way of his friends, and after several changes of circumstances, ultimately became a gardener. It will be seen from the following epitaph that he won the esteem of his employers: —

To the memory of John Martin, gardener, a native of Portugal, who cultivated here, with industry and success, the same ground under three masters, forty years.

 
Though skilful and experienced,
He was modest and unassuming;
And tho’ faithful to his masters,
And with reason esteemed,
He was kind to his fellow-servants,
And was therefore beloved.
His family and neighbours lamented his death,
As he was a careful husband, a tender father,
and an honest man.
 

This character of him is given to posterity by his last master, willingly because deservedly, as a lasting testimony of his great regard for so good a servant.

 
He died March 30th, 1760. Aged 66 years.
For public service grateful nations raise
Proud structures, which excite to deeds of praise;
While private services, in corners thrown,
Howe’er deserving, never gain a stone.
 
 
But are not lilies, which the valleys hide,
Perfect as cedars, tho’ the valley’s pride?
Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe,
And pines their ever-verdant branches wreathe
 
 
Around his grave, who from their tender birth
Upreared both dwarf and giant sons of earth,
And tho’ himself exotic, lived to see
Trees of his raising droop as well as he.
 
 
Those were his care, while his own bending age,
His master propp’d and screened from winter’s rage,
Till down he gently fell, then with a tear
He bade his sorrowing sons transport him here.
 
 
But tho’ in weakness planted, as his fruit
Always bespoke the goodness of his root,
The spirit quickening, he in power shall rise
With leaf unfading under happier skies.
 

The next is on the Tradescants, famous gardeners and botanists at Lambeth. In 1657 Mr. Tradescant, Junr., presented to the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, a remarkable cabinet of curiosities: —

 
Know, stranger, ere thou pass, beneath this stone
Lye John Tradescant, grandsire, father, son;
The last died in his spring; the other two
Liv’d till they had travell’d art and nature through;
As by their choice collections may appear,
Of what is rare, in land, in sea, in air;
Whilst they (as Homer’s Iliad in a nut)
A world of wonders in one closet shut;
These famous antiquarians, that had been
Both gard’ners to the ROSE and LILY QUEEN,
Transplanted now themselves, sleep here; and when
Angels shall with trumpets waken men,
And fire shall purge the world, these hence shall rise,
And change this garden for a paradise.
 

We have here an epitaph on a grocer, culled from the Rev. C. W. Bardsley’s “Memorials of St. Anne’s Church,” Manchester. In a note about the name of Howard, the author says: “Poor John Howard’s friends gave him an unfortunate epitaph – one, too, that reflected unkindly upon his wife. It may still be seen in the churchyard. – Here lyeth the body of John Howard, who died Jan. 2, 1800, aged 84 years; fifty years a respectable grocer, and an honest man. As it is further stated that his wife died in 1749, fifty years before, it would seem that her husband’s honesty dated from the day of her decease. Mrs. Malaprop herself, in her happiest moments, could not have beaten this inscription.”

BACCHANALIAN EPITAPHS

Some singular epitaphs are to be found over the remains of men who either manufactured, dispensed, or loved the social glass. In the churchyard of Newhaven, the Sussex, following may be seen on the grave of a brewer:

To the Memory of

Thomas Tipper who

departed this life May the 14th

1785 Aged 54 Years

 
Reader, with kind regard this Grave survey
Nor heedless pass where Tipper’s ashes lay,
Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt, and kind;
And dared do, what few dare do, speak his mind,
Philosophy and History well he knew,
Was versed in Physick and in Surgery too,
The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold,
Nor did one knavish act to get his Gold.
He played through Life a varied comic part,
And knew immortal Hudibras by heart.
Reader, in real truth, such was the Man,
Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can.
 

The next, on John Scott, a Liverpool brewer, is rather rich in puns: —

 
Poor John Scott lies buried here;
Although he was both hale and stout,
Death stretched him on the bitter bier.
In another world he hops about.
 

On a Butler in Ollerton church-yard is the following curious epitaph: —

 
Beneath the droppings of this spout,
Here lies the body once so stout,
Of Francis Thompson.
A soul this carcase once possess’d,
Which of its virtues was caress’d,
By all who knew the owner best.
The Rufford records can declare,
His actions, who for seventy year,
Both drew and drank its potent beer;
Fame mentions not in all that time,
In this great Butler the least crime,
To stain his reputation.
To envy’s self we now appeal,
If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.
Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear,
Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6th, 1739.
 

We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal churchyard; it is on Joseph Thackerey, who died on the 26th of November, 1791: —

 
In the year of our Lord 1740
I came to the Crown;
In 1791 they laid me down.
 

The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving of the spiritual with the temporal: —

 
Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion,
Doth lie the landlord of the “Lion,”
His son keeps on the business still,
Resign’d unto the Heavenly will.
 

In 1789 passed away the landlady of the “Pig and Whistle,” Greenwich, and the following lines were inscribed to her memory: —

 
Assign’d by Providence to rule a tap,
My days pass’d gibly, till an awkward rap,
Some way, like bankruptcy, impell’d me down.
But up I got again and shook my gown
In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever,
Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather;
Composed with creditors, at five in pound,
And frolick’d on till laid beneath this ground.
The debt of Nature must, you know, be paid,
No trust from her – God grant extent in aid.
 

On an inn-keeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen: —

In memory of

John Buckett,

Many years landlord of the King’s

Head Inn, in this Borough,

Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802

Aged 67 years

 
And is, alas! poor Buckett gone?
Farewell, convivial, honest John.
Oft at the well, by fatal stroke,
Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.
In this same motley shifting scene,
How various have thy fortunes been!
Now lifted high – now sinking low.
To-day thy brim would overflow,
Thy bounty then would all supply,
To fill and drink, and leave thee dry;
To-morrow sunk as in a well,
Content, unseen, with truth to dwell:
But high or low, or wet or dry,
No rotten stave could malice spy.
Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise,
And claim thy station in the skies;
’Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine,
Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.
 

From the “Sportive Wit: the Muses’ Merriment,” issued in 1656, we extract the following lines on John Taylor, “the Water Poet,” who was a native of Gloucester, and died in Phœnix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent Garden Churchyard: —

 
Here lies John Taylor, without rime or reason,
For death struck his muse in so cold a season,
That Jack lost the use of his scullers to row:
The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.
Alas, poor Jack Taylor! this ’tis to drink ale
With nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale,
It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the pack
With Draiton and Johnson to quaff off thy sack,
They’d infus’d thee a genius should ne’er expire,
And have thaw’d thy muse with elemental fire.
Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit,
Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit,
The nymphs of the rivers for thy relation
Sirnamed thee the water-poet of the nation.
Who can write more of thee let him do’t for me.
A – take all rimers, Jack Taylor, but thee.
Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse,
Over the stone of so merry a muse.
 

Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper, Mauchline: —

 
Here lies Johnny Pigeon:
What was his religion?
Whae’er desires to ken,
To some other warl’
Maun follow the carl,
For here Johnny had none!
Strong ale was ablution —
Small beer persecution,
A dram was memento mori;
But a full flowing bowl
Was the saving of his soul,
And port was celestial glory.
 

We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following on a publican: —

 
A jolly landlord once was I,
And kept the Old King’s Head hard by,
Sold mead and gin, cider and beer,
And eke all other kinds of cheer,
Till Death my license took away,
And put me in this house of clay:
A house at which you all must call,
Sooner or later, great or small.
 

It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe’s entertaining volume, “Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions,” that in the churchyard of Edwalton is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable land-owner, who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a very free liver, for her memorial says:

 
She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,
And lived to the age of ninety-nine.
 

A gravestone in Darneth Churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following epitaph: —

 
Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more,
For what he lov’d did turn his foe:
For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day,
The Debt he owed he then did pay.
 

At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given: —

 
Weep not for him, the warmest tear that’s shed
Falls unavailing o’er the unconscious dead;
Take the advice these friendly lines would give,
Live not to drink, but only drink to live.
 

From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following: —

Hail!

This stone marks the spot

Where a notorious sot

Doth lie;

Whether at rest or not

It matters not

To you or I

Oft to the “Lion” he went to fill his horn

Now to the “Grave” he’s gone to get it warm

Beered by public subscription by his hale and stout companions, who deeply lament his absence.

On a gravestone in the churchyard of Eton, placed to the memory of an innkeeper, it is stated: —

 
Life’s an inn; my house will shew it:
I thought so once, but now I know it.
Man’s life is but a winter’s day;
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stop, and are full fed;
The oldest man but sups and then to bed:
Large is his debt who lingers out the day;
He who goes soonest has the least to pay.
 

Similar epitaphs to the foregoing may be found in many churchyards in this country. In Micklehurst churchyard, an inscription runs thus: —

 
Life is an Inn, where all men bait,
The waiter, Time, the landlord, Fate;
Death is the score by all men due,
I’ve paid my shot – and so must you.
 

In the old burial ground in Castle Street, Hull, on the gravestone of a boy, a slightly different version of the rhyme appears: —

In memory of

John, the Son of John and

Ann Bywater, died 25th January,

1815, aged 14 years

 
Life’s like an Inn, where Travellers stay,
Some only breakfast and away;
Others to dinner stay, and are full fed;
The oldest only sup and go to bed;
Long is the bill who lingers out the day,
Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.
 

The churchyard of Melton Mowbray furnishes another rendering of the lines: —

 
This world’s an Inn, and I her guest:
I’ve eat and drank and took my rest
With her awhile, and now I pay
Her lavish bill and go my way.
 

The foregoing inscriptions, comparing life to a house, remind us of a curious inscription in Folkestone churchyard: —

In memory of

Rebecca Rogers,

who died Aug. 22, 1688,

Aged 44 years

 
A house she hath, it’s made of such good fashion
The tenant ne’er shall pay for reparation,
Nor will her landlord ever raise the rent,
Or turn her out of doors for non-payment;
From chimney money, too, this call is free,
To such a house, who would not tenant be.
 

In “Chronicles of the Tombs,” by Thomas Joseph Pettigrew, published in 1857, it is stated respecting the foregoing epitaph: “Smoke money or chimney money is now collected at Battle, in Sussex, each householder paying one penny to the Lord of the Manor. It is also levied upon the inhabitants of the New Forest, in Hants, for the right of cutting peat and turf for fuel. And from ‘Audley’s Companion to the Almanac,’ page 76, we learn that ‘anciently, even in England, Whitsun farthings, or smoke farthings, were a composition for offerings made in the Whitsun week, by every man who occupied a house with a chimney, to the cathedral of the diocese in which he lived.’ The late Mr. E. B. Price has observed, in Notes and Queries, (Vol. ii. p. 379), that there is a church at Northampton, upon which is an inscription recording that the expense of repairing it was defrayed by a grant of chimney money for, I believe, seven years, temp. Charles II.”

In the burial-ground of St. Michael’s Church, London, was interred one of the waiters of the famous Boar’s Head Tavern: —

Here lieth the bodye of Robert Preston, late Drawer at the Boar’s Head Tavern, Great Eastcheap, who departed this Life, March 16, Anno Domini 1730, aged 27 years.

 
Bacchus, to give the topeing world surprize,
Produc’d one sober son, and here he lies.
Tho’ nurs’d among full Hogsheads, he defy’d
The charm of wine and ev’ry vice beside.
O Reader, if to Justice thou’rt inclined,
Keep Honest Preston daily in thy Mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that outweighed his fauts, (sic)
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.
 

The next example from Abesford, on an exciseman, is entitled to a place among Bacchanalian epitaphs: —

 
No supervisor’s check he fears —
Now no commissioner obeys;
He’s free from cares, entreaties, tears,
And all the heavenly oil surveys.
 

In the churchyard of North Wingfield, Derbyshire, a gravestone bears the following inscription: —

In Memory of Thomas, son of John and Mary Clay, who departed this life December 16th 1724, in the 40th year of his age.

 
What though no mournful kindred stand
Around the solemn bier,
No parents wring the trembling hand,
Or drop the silent tear.
 
 
No costly oak adorned with art
My weary limbs inclose;
No friends impart a winding-sheet
To deck my last repose.
 

The cause of the foregoing curious epitaph is thus explained. Thomas Clay was a man of intemperate habits, and at the time of his death was indebted to the village innkeeper, named Adlington, to the amount of twenty pounds. The publican resolved to seize the body; but the parents of the deceased carefully kept the door locked until the day appointed for the funeral. As soon as the door was opened, Adlington rushed into the house, seized the corpse, and placed it on a form in the open street in front of the residence of the parents of the departed. Clay’s friends refused to discharge the publican’s account. After the body had been exposed for several days, Adlington committed it to the ground in a bacon chest.

We conclude this class of epitaphs with the following from Winchester churchyard: —

In memory of

Thomas Thetcher,

a Grenadier in the North Regiment of Hants Militia,

who died of a violent fever contracted by drinking small

beer when hot the

12th of May, 1764, aged 26 years

In grateful remembrance of whose universal goodwill

towards his comrades this stone is placed here at their expense, as

a small testimony of their regard and concern

 
Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier,
Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer;
Soldiers, be wise from his untimely fall,
And when ye’re hot drink strong, or none at all.
 

This memorial, being decayed, was restored by the officers of the garrison, A.D. 1781: —

 
An honest soldier never is forgot,
Whether he die by musket or by pot.
 

This stone was placed by the North Hants Militia, when disembodied at Winchester, on 26th April, 1802, in consequence of the original stone being destroyed.