Gleanings in Graveyards Part 34

William Matthison here lies, Whose age was forty-one, February 17, he dies, Went Isbel Mitch.e.l.l from, Who was his married wife The fourth part of his life.

The soul it cannot die, Though the body be turned to clay, Yet meet again they must At the last day.

Trumpet shall sound, archangels cry, "Come forth Isbel Mitch.e.l.l and meet Will Matthison in the sky."

HADDINGTON.

If modesty commend a wife And Providence a mother, Grave chast.i.ty a widow's life, We'll not find such another In Haddington as Mareon Gray, Who here doth lie till the Domesday.

Hout, Atropos, heard-hearted hag, To cut the sheugh o' Jamie Craig!

For had he lived a wheen mae years He'd been o'er teugh for thy auld shears.

But now he's gane, sae maun we a', Wha wres'les Death's aye shure to fa'; Sae let us pray that we at last May wun frae Death a canny cast.

ABERLADY.

"Here lies John Smith, Whom Death slew, for all his pith The starkest man in Aberlady, G.o.d prepare and make us ready.

Lanarks.h.i.+re.

GLASGOW.

Our life's a flying shadow, G.o.d's the pole, The index pointing at him is our soul; Death's the horizon, when our sun is set, Which will through Christ a resurrection get.

Here lies Ma.s.s Andrew Gray, Of whom ne muckle good can I say: He was ne Quaker, for he had ne spirit, He was ne Papist, for he had ne merit.

He was ne Turk, for he drank muckle wine, He was ne Jew, for he eat muckle swine.

Full forty years he preach'd and le'ed, For which G.o.d doomed him when he de'ed.

Perths.h.i.+re.

DUNKELD.

Margery Scott.

Stop, pa.s.senger, until my life you read, The living may get knowledge from the dead: Five times five years I lived a virgin life, Five times five years I was a virtuous wife, Five times five years a widow, grave and chaste, Tired of the elements, I am now at rest; Betwixt my cradle and my grave were seen Eight mighty kings of Scotland and a Queen; Thrice did I see old Pulacy pulled down, And thrice the cloak did sink beneath the gown.

Stirlings.h.i.+re.

STIRLING.

John Adamson's here kept within, Death's prisoner for Adam's sin, But rests in hope that he shall be Let, by the second Adam, free.

Wigtons.h.i.+re.

WIGTON.

Here lies John Taggart, of honest fame, Of stature low, and a leg lame; Content he was with portion small, Kept a shop in Wigtown, and that's all.

Miscellaneous.

A servant maid was sent by her mistress to Ben Jonson for an epitaph on her departed husband. She could only afford to pay half-a-guinea, which Ben refused, saying he never wrote one for less than double that sum; but recollecting he was going to dine that day at a tavern, he ran down stairs and called her back. "What was your master's name?"-"Jonathan Fiddle, sir." "When did he die?"-"June the 22nd, sir." Ben took a small piece of paper, and wrote with his pencil, while standing on the stairs, the following:-

On the twenty-second of June, Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.

On Shadrach Johnson,

Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty- four children by his first wife, and eight by his second.

Shadrach lies here; who made both s.e.xes happy, The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.

On a Cricketer.

I _bowled_, I _struck_, I _caught_, I _stopt_, Sure life's a game of cricket; I _block'd_ with care, with caution popp'd, Yet Death has. .h.i.t my _wicket_.

On a Puritanical Locksmith.