EPITAPHS. (continued 2)
Reading edition
SHIFFNALL.
August 7th, 1714, Mary, the wife of Joseph Yates, of Lizard Common, within the parish, was buried, aged 127 years. She walked to London just after the Fire, in 1666; was hearty and strong at 120 years; and married a third husband at 92.
CEUN.
Charles Dike.
Joyous his birth, wealth o’er his cradle shone, Gen’rous he prov’d, far was his bounty known; Men, horses, hounds were feasted at his hall, There strangers found a welcome bed and stall; Quick distant idlers answered to his horn, And all was gladness in the sportsman’s morn.
But evening came, and colder blew the gale, Means, overdone, had now begun to fail; His wine was finished, and he ceas’d to brew, And fickle friends now hid them from his view. Unknown, neglected, pin’d the man of worth, Death his best friend, his resting-place the Earth.
The following is copied from a head-stone, set up in the churchyard of High Ercall. Those who are fond of the sublime, will certainly rejoice over this precious poetical morsel:—
Salop, Oct. 1797. Elizabeth the Wife Of Richard Baarlamb, passed to Eternity on Sunday, the 21st of May, 1797, in the 71st year of her age.
When terrestrial all in Chaos shall Exhibit effervescence, Then Celestial virtues in their most Refulgent Brilliant essence, Shall with beaming Beauteous Radiance, thro’ the ebullition Shine; Transcending to Glorious Regions Beatifical, Sublime.
CHURCH STRETTON.
On a Thursday she was born, On a Thursday made a bride, On a Thursday put to bed, On a Thursday broke her leg, and On a Thursday died.
Somersetshire.
BARWICK.
Sarah Higmore, æt. 6.
Ye modern fair, who’er you be, This Truth we can aver: A lesson of humility You all may learn from her. She had what none of you can boast, With all your Wit and Sense— She had what you, alas! have lost, And that was—Innocence.
TAUNTON.
James Waters.
Death, traversing the western road, And asking where true merit lay, Made in this town a short abode, And took this worthy man away.
YEOVIL.
John Webb,
Son of John and Mary Webb, Clothiers, who died of the measles, May 3d, 1646, aged 3 years.
How still he lies! And clos’d his eyes, That shone as bright as day! The cruel measles, Like clothier’s teasels, Have scratched his life away.
Cochineal red, His lips have fled, Which now are blue and black. Dear pretty wretch, How thy limbs stretch, Like cloth upon the rack.
Repress thy sighs, The husband cries, My dear, and not repine, For ten to one, When God’s work’s done, He’ll come off superfine.
Staffordshire.
YOXHALL.
On Anthony Cooke, who died on Easter Monday.
At the due sacrifice of the Paschall Lambe, April had 8 days wept in showers, then came Leane, hungry death, who never pitty tooke, And cause the feast was ended, slew this Cooke. On Easter Monday, he lyves then noe day more, But sunk to rise with him that rose before; He’s here intomb’d; a man of virtue’s line Out reacht his yeares, yet they were seventy-nine. He left on earth ten children of eleven To keep his name, whilst himself went to heaven.
BILSTON.
In Mem. of Mary Maria, wife of Wm Dodd, who died Decr 12th, A.D. 1847, aged 27. Also of their children, Louisa, who died Decr 12th, 1847, aged 9 months; and Alfred, who died Jany 3rd, A. D. 1848, aged 2 years and 9 months.
All victims to the neglect of sanitary regulation, and specially referred to in a recent lecture on Health in this town.
And the Lord said to the angel that destroyed, it is enough, stay now thine hand.—1 Chron. xx. 17.
In Mem. of Joseph, son of Joseph and Mary Meek, who was accidentally drowned in the cistern of the day school adjoining this church, April 30th, 1845, aged 8 years. This distressing event is recorded by the minister, as an expression of sympathy with the parents, and caution to the children of the school—a reproof to the proprietors of the open wells, pits and landslips; the want of fencing about which is the frequent cause of similar disaster in these districts; and as a memento to all of the uncertainty of life, and the consequent necessity of immediate and continued preparation for death.
“And if any man ask you, Why do you loose him? Then shall ye say unto him, Because the Lord hath need of him.” [90]—Luke xix. 31.
BUTTERTON.
Near to this stone John Barnett lies, There’s no man frets, nor no man cries, Where he’s gone, or how he fares, There’s no man knows, nor no man cares.
STAFFORD.
Here Leah’s fruitfulness, Here Rachael’s beauty; Here lyeth Rebecca’s faith, Here Sarah’s duty.
WOLSTANSTON.
Ann Jennings.
Some have children, some have none; Here lies the mother of twenty-one.
LICHFIELD.
Live well—die never; Die well—live for ever.
Suffolk.
BURY ST. EDMUNDS.
The following whimsical epitaph appears upon a white marble slab, in a conspicuous part of the church of St. Mary:—
Near this place are deposited the remains of Gedge, Printer, who established the first newspaper that has been published in this town. Like a worn out type, he is returned to the founder, in the hope of being recast in a better and more perfect mould.
HADLEIGH.
The charnel mounted on this w ) Sits to be seen in funer ) A matron plain, domestic ) In housewifery a princip ) In care and pains continu ) Not slow, nor gay, nor prodig ) all. Yet neighbourly and hospitab ) Her children seven yet living ) Her 67th year hence did c ) To rest her body natur ) In hope to rise spiritu )
On little Stephen, a noted fiddler.
Stephen and Time Are now both even; Stephen beat Time, Now Time beats Stephen.
Life is only pain below, When Christ appears, then up we go.
IPSWICH.
John Warner.
I Warner once was to myself, Now Warning am to thee, Both living, dying, dead I was, See then thou warned be.
On ---- More, of Norwich.
More had I once, More would I have; More is not to be had. The first I . . . the next is vaine; The third is too too bad. If I had us’d with more regard The More that I did give, I might have made More use and fruit Of More while he did live.
THURLOW.
Here she lies, a pretty bud, Lately made of flesh and blood; Who as soon fell fast asleep As her little eyes did peep. Give her strewings, but not stir The earth that lightly covers her.
LAVENHAM.
Quod fuit esse quod est, quod non fuit esse quod esse. Esse quod est non esse, quod est non erit esse.
Translation.
What John Giles has been, Is what he is (a batchelor); What he has not been, Is what he is (a corpse); To be what he is Is not to be (a living creature). He will not have to be What he is not (dust).
BURY.
Here lies Jane Kitchen, who, when her glass was spent, Kickt up her heels, and away she went.
Surrey.
BERMONDSEY.
William Palin.
Silent grave, to thee I trust This precious pearl of worthy dust. Keep it safe, O sacred tomb! Until a wife shall ask for room.
WALWORTH.
Here lies the wife of Roger Martin, She was a good wife to Roger—that’s sartain.
OCKHAM.
The Lord saw good, I was topping off wood, And down fell from the tree; I met with a check, and I broke my blessed neck, And so Death topped off me.
WIMBLEDON.
Sweet Saviour, Jesus, give me wings Of Peace and perfect Love, As I may move from Earthly Things, To rest with thee above.
For sins and Sorrows overflow All earthly things so High, That I can’t find no rest below, Till up to thee I fly.
THAMES DITTON.
In memory of Mr. Wm Machell, who departed this life Oct. 10, 1808. Aged 88 years.
Whilst in this world I remained, my life was A pleasure and health and gain. But now God thought best to take me to his everlasting rest, And I thank God for it.
STREATHAM.
On the South Wall of this Church is the following remarkable Inscription:—Elizabeth, wife of Major-Genl Hamilton, who was married 47 years, and never did ONE thing to disoblige her Husband.
BATTERSEA.
Sir Edward Court.
“Alone, unarm’d, a tiger he oppress’d, And crush’d to death the monster of a beast: Thrice twenty mounted Moors he overthrew Singly on foot, some wounded, some he slew, Disperst the rest; what more could Sampson do?”
Note.—This is only part of the inscription, which relates that, being attacked in the woods by a tiger, he placed himself on the side of a pond, and when the tiger flew at him, he caught him in his arms, fell back with him into the water, got upon him, and kept him down till he had drowned him.
GUILDFORD.
Reader, pass on, ne’er waste your time On bad biography and bitter rhyme; For what I am, this cumb’rous clay insures, And what I was, is no affair of yours.
BEDDINGTON.
Thomas Greenhill.
Under thy feet interr’d is here A native born in Oxfordshire; First life and learning Oxford gave, Surry him his death and grave; He once a Hill was fresh and Greene, Now withered is not to be seene; Earth in earth shovell’d up is shut, A Hill into a Hole is put; But darksome earth by Power Divine, Bright at last as the sun may shine.
RICHMOND.
On Captain John Dunch, who died in 1697, aged 67.
Though Boreas’ blasts and Neptune’s waves Have tossed me to and fro, In spight of both, by God’s decree, I anchor here below, Where I do now at anchor ride, With many of our fleet, Yet once again I must set sail, Our admiral, Christ, to meet.
CAMBERWELL.
Richard Wade, died Oct. 21, 1810, aged 53. Giles Wade, died Dec. 8, 1810, aged 53.
Near together they came, Near together they went, Near together they are.
Sussex.
BARCOMB.
All you that come my grave to see Prepare yourself to Follow me, Take care Young men repent in time For I was taken in my Prime.
As I was going through a Barn I little thought of any harm, A piece of Timber on me fell, And penetrated through my Skull.
My Eyes were Blinded I could not see, My Parents they did weep for Me, My Time was come I was Forced to go, And bid the World and Them Adieu.
Just six and thirty hours I lay In great Pain and Agony, Till the Archangel bid me come, And called my Soul to its last Home.
CHICHESTER.
A certain noble lord of no very moral life, dying, had inscribed upon his tomb, the phrase, “Ultima Domus,”—Collins, the poet, is said to have pencill’d those lines under the words:—
Did he who wrote upon this wall, Believe or disbelieve St. Paul? Who says where-er it is or stands, There is another house not made with hands, Or do we gather from these words, That house is not a house of lords?
Here lies an old soldier whom all must applaud, Who fought many battles at home and abroad; But the hottest engagement he ever was in, Was the conquest of self in the battle of sin.
BEXHILL.
On a Young Lady.
I lay me down to rest me, And pray to God to bless me, And if I sleep and never wake, I pray to God my soul to take This night for Evermore—Amen.
WEST GRINSTEAD.
Vast Strong was I, but yet did dye, And in my Grave asleep I Lye, My Grave is Stoned all round about, But I hope the Lord will find me out.
MAYFIELD.
Oh reader! if that thou can’st read Look down upon this stone; Do all we can, Death is a man, What never spareth none.
STORRINGTON.
Here lies the body of Edward Hide, We laid him here because he died, We had rather It been his father, If it had been his sister We should not have missed her, But since ’tis honest Ned, No more shall be said.
Here lies my poor wife, without bed or blanket, But dead as a door nail, God be thanked.
LAVANT.
Mr. Samford, Blacksmith.
My Sledge and hammer lie reclined, My Bellows, too, have lost their wind; My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed, And in the dust my vice is laid; My coal is spent, my iron gone, My nails are drove, my work is done.
EAST GRINSTEAD.
I was as grass that did grow up, And wither’d before it grew, As Snails do waste within their Shells, So the number of my days were few.
RODMELL.
Elizabeth Ellis (1757).
If love and virtue doth conduce to grace the fair, These was once possessed by her who lieth here; But alas! by fate the object of her love was drowned. By death surprized in trying to save a hound. Which such effect had on her tender mind It brought her into a deep decline. With him her transitory bliss is fled, And she a cold companion of the dead. Since this catastrophe cannot fail to show How uncertain all earthly joys are here below.
BRIGHTON.
His fate was hard, but God’s decree Was, drown’d he should lie—in the sea.
Warwickshire.
BIRMINGHAM.
By a Lady on her Husband.
Oh! cruel death, how could you be so unkind, To take him before, and leave me behind. You should have taken both of us—if either, Which would have been more pleasant to the survivor.
My time is out, my glass is run, I never more shan’t see the sun; To live for ever, no man don’t, The Lord does not think fitting on’t.
COVENTRY.
Upon a rich Merchant’s Wife.
She was What was, But words are Wanting to say what a One. What a Wife should be, She was that.
STRATFORD ON AVON.
On Shakspeare’s Monument are engraved the following distich and lines:—
“Judicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, Terra tegit, populus mœret, Olympus habet.”
“Stay, passenger, why dost thou go so fast? Read, if thou canst, what envious death hath placed Within this monument; Shakspeare, with whom Quick nature died; whose name doth deck the tomb Far more than cost, since all that he hath writ Leaves living art but page unto his wit.”
Westmoreland.
RAVENSTONEDALE.
Here lies a Wife, Mary Metcalf, Where I was born, or when, It matters not,— To whom related, or By whom begot.
John Robinson Hunter, Aged 30.
He lived; and died Unplaced, unpensioned— No man’s heir Or slave.
“Can the inhabitants of Ravenstonedale look at either of these monuments without blushing? Can the freeholders of that parish look at the latter, and not consider it prophetically as the voice of one speaking from the dead?”
Wiltshire.
SALISBURY.
“Innocence embellishes, divinely compleat, The pre-existing co-essence, now sublimely great. He can surpassingly immortalize thy theme, And perforate thy soul, celestial supreme. When gracious refulgence bids the grave resign The Creator’s nursing protection be thine. So shall each perspiring æther joyfully arise, Transcendantly good, supereminently wise.”
In the morning I was well, In the afternoon from a cart I fell, An accident somewhat severe, In less than a fortnight brought me here.
ANSTEY.
Mary Best lies buried hear, Her age it was just ninety year; Twenty-eight she liv’d a single life, And only four years was a wife; She liv’d a widow fifty-eight, And died January 11, eighty-eight.
CALNE.
God worketh wonders now and then, Here lies a miller, and an honest man.
Worcestershire.
WORCESTER.
Mr. John Mole.
Beneath this cold stone lies a son of the earth; His story is short, though we date from his birth; His mind was as gross as his body was big; He drank like a fish, and he ate like a pig. No cares of religion, of wedlock, or state, Did e’er for a moment encumber John’s pate. He sat or he walked, but his walk was but creeping, And he rose from his bed—when quite tir’d of sleeping. Without foe, without friend, unnotic’d he died; Not a single soul laughed, not a single soul cried. Like his four-footed namesake, he dearly lov’d earth. So the sexton has cover’d his body with turf.
Mammy and I together lived Just two years and a half; She went first, I followed next, The cow before the calf.
BROMESGROVE.
In memory of Thomas Maningly.
Beneath this stone lies the remains, Who in Bromsgrove-street was slain. A currier with his knife did the deed, And left me in the street to bleed; But when archangel’s trump shall sound, And souls to bodies join, that murderer I hope will see my soul in heaven shine.
GREAT MALVERN.
Pain was my portion, physic was my food, Grones my devotion—drugs done me no good. Christ was my physician—he knowed what was best, He took me to Himself, and put me here at rest.
BELBROUGTON
Richard Philpots.
To tell a merry or a wonderous tale Over a chearful glass of nappy Ale, In harmless mirth was his supreme delight, To please his Guests or Friends by day or night; But no fine tale, how well soever told, Could make the tyrant Death his stroak withold; That fatal Stroak has Laid him here in Dust, To rise again once more with Joy we trust.
On the upper portion of this Christian monument are carved, in full relief, a punch-bowl, a flagon, and a bottle, emblems of the deceased’s faith, and of those pots which Mr. Philpots delighted to fill.
“Near to this is a fine tombstone to the memory of Paradise Buckler (who died in 1815), the daughter of a gipsy king. The pomp that attended her funeral is well remembered by many of the inhabitants. I have heard one of my relatives say that the gipsies borrowed from her a dozen of the finest damask napkins (for the coffin handles)—none but those of the very best quality being accepted for the purpose—and that they were duly returned, beautifully ‘got up’ and scented. The king and his family were encamped in a lane near to my relative’s house, and his daughter (a young girl of fifteen) died in the camp.
“C. Bede.”
Yorkshire.
LEEDS.
Under this stone do lie six children small, Of John Wittington of the North Hall.
On a Learned Alderman.
Here lies William Curtis, late our Lord Mayor, Who has left this here world, and is gone to that there.
SELBY.
Here lies the body of poor Frank Row, Parish clerk, and grave-stone cutter; And this is writ to let you know, What Frank for others us’d to do, Is now for Frank done by another.
BARWICK-IN-ELMET.
On a Marine Officer.
Here lies, retired from busy scenes, A first lieutenant of marines, Who lately lived in gay content On board the brave ship Diligent. Now stripped of all his warlike show, And laid in box of elm below, Confined in earth in narrow borders, He rises not till further orders.
BIRSTALL.
This is to the memory of old Amos, Who was, when alive for hunting famous, But now his chases are all o’er, And here he’s earthed—of years fourscore. Upon this stone he’s often sat, And tried to read his epitaph; And thou who dost so at this moment, Shalt, ere long, somewhere lie dormant.
ROTHERHAM.
We joined was in mutual love, And so we did remain, Till parted was by God above, In hopes to meet again.
LEEDS.
Hic jacet sure the fattest man, That Yorkshire stingo made; He was a lover—of his can, A clothier by his trade. His waist did measure three yards round, He weighed almost three hundred pounds; His flesh did weigh full twenty stone— His flesh, I say, he had no bone, At least ’tis said that he had none.
NORTH ALLERTON.
Hic jacet Walter Gun, Some time Landlord of the Sun; Sic transit gloria mundi. He drank hard upon Friday, That being a high day, Then took to his bed and died upon Sunday.
WADDINGTON.
Wm. Rd. Phelp, a Boatswain of H.M.S. Invincible.
When I was like you, For years not a few, On the ocean I toil’d, On the line I have broil’d, In Greenland I’ve shiver’d, Now from hardships deliver’d; Capsized by old Death, I surrendered my breath, And now I lay snug, As a bug in a rug.
LEEDS.
Here lies my wife, Here lies she; Hallelujah, Hallelujee.
RICHMOND.
Here lies the body of William Wix, One Thousand, Seven Hundred & Sixty Six.