Gleanings in Graveyards Part 43

On a Miser.

Here lies one for medicine would not give A little gold, and so his life he lost; I fancy now he'd wish to live again, Could he but know how much his funeral cost.

On a Miser.

Iron was his chest, Iron was his door, His hand was iron, And his heart was more.

On a Miser.

Here lies old father GRIPE, who never cried "_Jam satis_;"

'Twould wake him did he know, you read his tombstone gratis.

On an Old Covetous Usurer.

You'd have me say, here lies T. U.

But I do not believe it; For after Death there's something due, And he's gone to receive it.

On an Usurer.

Here lies ten in the hundred In the ground fast ram'd, 'Tis an hundred to ten, But his soul is d.a.m.ned.

Epitaph on the grave of a Smuggler killed in a fight with Revenue Officers.

Here I lies Killed by the XII.

On a Miser.

Here lies one who lived unloved, and died unlamented; who denied plenty to himself, and a.s.sistance to his friends, and relief to the poor; who starved his family, oppressed his neighbours, and plagued himself to gain what he could not enjoy; at last Death, more merciful to him than he was to himself, released him from care, and his family from want; and here he lies with the grovelling worm, and with the dirt he loved, in fear of a resurrection, lest his heirs should have spent the money he left behind, having laid up no treasure where moth and rust do not corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

On John D'Amory, the Usurer.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demar the wealthy and wise.

His Heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcase in a Chest.

The very Chest, in which, they say His other Self, his Money, lay.

And if his Heirs continue kind To that dear Self he left behind, I dare believe that Four in Five Will think his better self alive.

On William Clay.

A long affliction did my life attend, But time with patience brought it to an end, And now my body rests with Mother clay, Until the joyful resurrection day.

Written on Montmaur, A man of excellent memory, but deficient in judgment.

In this black surtout reposes sweetly, Montmaur of happy memory, _awaiting his judgement_.

On an Invalid.

Written by Himself.

Here lies a head that often ached; Here lie two hands that always shak'd; Here lies a brain of odd conceit; Here lies a heart that often beat; Here lie two eyes that dimly wept, And in the night but seldom slept; Here lies a tongue that whining talk'd;- Here lie two feet that feebly walked; Here lie the midriff and the breast, With loads of indigestion prest; Here lives the liver full of bile, That ne'er secreted proper chyle; Here lie the bowels, human tripes, Tortured with wind and twisting gripes; Here lies the livid dab, the spleen, The source of life's sad tragic scene, That left side weight that clogs the blood, And stagnates Nature's circling flood; Here lies the back, oft racked with pains, Corroding kidneys, loins, and reins; Here lies the skin by scurvy fed, With pimples and irruptions red; Here lies the man from top to toe, That fabric fram'd for pain and woe.

On Sir John Vanbrugh.

Lie heavy on him, earth! for he Laid many heavy loads on thee.

The following Epitaph was written by Shakespeare on Mr. Combe, an old gentleman noted for his wealth and usury:-

"_Ten in the hundred_ lies here ingraved: 'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not saved: If any man ask, Who lies in this tomb?

Oh! oh! QUOTH THE DEVIL, 'TIS MY JOHN-A-COMBE."

On Dr. Fuller.

Here lies _Fuller's_ earth.

On a Card-maker.

His card is cut; long days he shuffled through The game of Life; he dealt as others do.

Though he by honours tells not its amount, When the last trump is played his tricks will count.