Gleanings in Graveyards Part 35

A zealous locksmith died of late, And did arrive at heaven gate; He stood without and would not knock, Because he meant to pick the lock.

On John Cole, Who died suddenly, while at dinner.

Here lies Johnny Cole, Who died, on my soul, After eating a plentiful dinner.

While chewing his crust, He was turned into dust, With his crimes undigested-poor sinner!

On Mr. Death, the Actor.

Death levels all, both high and low, Without regard to stations; Yet why complain, If we are slain?

For here lies one, at least, to show, He kills his own relations.

"The following reference to one departed Mr. Strange, of the legal profession, is rather complimentary; and I have only to hope that the fact of the case is as stated, and that the writer was not led away by the obvious opportunity of making a point, to exaggerate the virtues of the deceased. It looks a little suspicious." (_d.i.c.kens_).

"Here lies an honest lawyer, And that is Strange."

"Dr. I. Letsome wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone; but it is not likely that he allowed his friends, or at least his patients, to read it until he was under the turf, or out of practice:"-

"When people's ill, they comes to I, I physics, bleeds, and sweats 'em; Sometimes they live, sometimes they die; What's that to I? I. Letsome." (_lets 'em_.)

On Mr. Foot.

Here lies one Foot, whose death may thousands save; For Death himself has now _one Foot_ i' th' grave.

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in Horse-racing.

John ran so long, and ran so fast, No wonder he ran out at last; He ran in debt, and then to pay, He distanced all-and ran away.

On a Miser.

They call'd thee rich, I deem'd thee poor, Since, if thou dar'dst not use thy store, But sav'd it only for thy heirs, The treasure was not thine-but theirs.

Lines written by Robert of Gloucester upon King Henry the First, who died through over-eating of his favourite fish:-

"And when he com hom he willede of an lampreye to ete, Ac hys leeches hym oerbede, vor yt was feble mete, Ac he wolde it noyt beleve, vor he lovede yt well ynow, And ete as in better cas, vor thulke lampreye hym slow, Vor anon rygt thereafter into anguysse he drow, And died vor thys lampreye, thane hys owe wow."

On John Sydney, Who died full of the Small Pox.

In this sacred urn there lies, Till the last trump make it rise, A light that's wanting in the skies.

A corpse inveloped with stars, Who, though a stranger to the wars, Was mark'd with many hundred scars.

Death, at once, spent all his store Of darts, which this fair body bore, Though fewer had kill'd many more.

For him our own salt tears we quaff, Whose virtues shall preserve him safe, Beyond the power of epitaph.

Upon Two Religious Disputants, Who are interred within a few paces of each other.

Suspended here a contest see, Of two whose creeds could ne'er agree; For whether they would preach or pray, They'd do it in a different way; And they wou'd fain our fate deny'd, In quite a different manner dy'd!

Yet, think not that their rancour's o'er; No! for 'tis 10 to 1, and more, Tho' quiet now as either lies, But they've a wrangle when they rise.

On a disorderly fellow, named Chest.

Here lies one Chest within another.

That chest was good Which was made of wood, But who'll say so of t'other?

On John Death.

Here lies John Death, the very same That went away with a cousin of his name.

Lord Coningsby. By Pope.

Here lies Lord Coningsby-be civil; The rest G.o.d knows-perhaps the Devil.

On General Tulley.

Here lies General Tulley, Aged 105 years fully; Nine of his wives beside him doth lie, And the tenth must lie here when she doth die.

A Bishop's Epitaph.

In this house, which I have borrowed from my brethren worms, lie I, Samuel, by divine permission late Bishop of this Island, in hope of the resurrection to Eternal life. Reader, stop! view the Lord Bishop's palace, and smile.