Here lie Walker’s Particles.

The tomb of Keats the Poet.

This grave contains
all
that was mortal
of a
young English Poet,
who
on his death bed,
in the bitterness of his heart
at the malicious power of his enemies,
desired these
words to be engraved on his tombstone:
“Here lies one
whose name was writ in water.”
February 24, 1821.

On Mr. Quin.

Says Epicure Quin, Should the devil in hell,
In fishing for men take delight,
His hook bait with ven’son, I love it so well,
Indeed I am sure I should bite.

Here lies Sir John Plumpudding of the Grange,
Who hanged himself one morning for a change.

On John Bell.

I Jocky Bell o’ Braikenbrow, lyes under this stane,
Five of my awn sons laid it on my wame;
I liv’d aw my dayes, but sturt or strife,
Was man o’ my meat, and master o’ my wife.
If you done better in your time, than I did in mine,
Take this stane aff my wame, and lay it on o’ thine.

“An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”

Havard from sorrow rest beneath this stone;
An honest man—beloved as soon as known;
However defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly played his part!
The noblest character he acted well,
And heaven applauded when the curtain fell.

On Robin Masters, Undertaker.

Here lieth Robin Masters—Faith ’twas hard
   To take away our honest Robin’s breath;
Yet surely Robin was full well prepared,
   Robin was always looking out for death.

On an Undertaker.

Subdued by death, here death’s great herald lies,
And adds a trophy to his victories;
Yet sure he was prepared, who, while he’d breath,
Made it his business to look for death.

On a Cobler.

Death at a cobler’s door oft made a stand,
And always found him on the mending hand;
At last came Death, in very dirty weather,
And ripp’d the sole from off the upper leather.
Death put a trick upon him, and what was’t?
The cobler called for’s awl, Death brought his last.

Beneath yon humble clod, at rest
Lies Andrew, who, if not the best,
   Was not the very worst man;
A little rakish, apt to roam;
But not so now, he’s quite at home,
   For Andrew was a Dustman.

Here lies the body of John Cole,
His master loved him like his soul;
He could rake hay—none could rake faster,
Except that raking dog, his master.

Mr. Langford, Auctioneer.

So, so, Master Langford, the hammer of Death
Hath knock’d out your brains, and deprived you of breath;
’Tis but tit for tat, he who puts up the town,
By Devil or Death must at last be knock’d down.

On a man named Stone.

Jerusalem’s curse was not fulfilled in me,
For here a stone upon a Stone you see.

On Thomas Day.

Here lies Thomas Day,
Lately removed from over the way.

Epitaph by Burns.
(On a man choked by a piece of bread!)

Here I lie, killed by a crumb,
That wouldn’t go down, nor wouldn’t up come.

Here in this Chancel do I lye,
Known by the name of John Treffry.
Being born & made for to die;
So must thou, friend, as well as I.
Therefore good works be sure to try,
But chiefly love & Charity;
And still on them with faith rely,
To be happy eternally.

This was put up during his life, who was a whimsical man.  He had his grave dug, & lay down and swore in it, to show the sexton a novelty, i.e., a man swearing in his grave.

On -- Hatt.

By Death’s impartial scythe was mown
Poor Hatt—he lies beneath this stone;
On him misfortune oft did frown,
Yet Hatt ne’er wanted for a crown;
When many years of constant wear
Had made his beaver somewhat bare,
Death saw, and pitying his mishap,
Has given him here a good long nap.

Here I, Thomas Wharton, do lie,
   With Lucifer under my head,
And Nelly my wife hard bye,
   And Nancy as cold as lead.

O, how can I speak without dread
   Who could my sad fortune abide?
With one devil under my head,
   And another laid close on each side.

Here lie the bones of William Jones,
Who when alive collected bones,
But Death, that grisly bony spectre,
That most amazing bone collector,
Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy,
That here he lies in bonâ fide.

The late Rev. John Sampson, of Kendal.
       Sacrum

In memoriam viri doctissimi et clerici, Joannis Sampson,
   olim hujusce sacelli ministri, itemque ludi literarii apud
   Congalum triginta septem ferè annos magistri seduli;
   hoc marmor ponendum quidam discipulus præceptorem
   merens curavit.
Ob: An: ætatis suæ LXXVII; A.D. MDCCCXLIII.
Foris juxta januam e dextrâ introeunti sepultum est
   corpus.
Problemata plurima geometrica proposuit ac solvit; ad
   hæc accedunt versus haud pauci, latinè et manu suâ
   scripti; quorum exemplum infrà insculptum est; adeo
   ut Christiano tum mentem, tum viri fidem cognoscere
   liceat.

“αὐτòς ἔφη.”

   “Quandocunque sophos clarus sua dogmata profert,
     “Nil valet αὐτòς ἔφη, ni documenta daret;”
   “At mihi cùm Christus loquitur, verum, via, vita,
     “Tum vero fateor sufficit αὐτòς ἔφη.”

Epitaph on the Mareschal Comte de Ranzan, a Swede, who accompanied Oxenstiern to Paris, and was taken into the French service by Louis XIII.  He died of hydrophobia in 1650.  He had been in innumerable battles, had lost an eye and two limbs, and his body was found to be entirely covered with scars.

At Arlington, near Paris.

            Here lie
Two grandmothers, with their two granddaughters
Two husbands with their two wives,
Two fathers with their two daughters,
Two mothers with their two sons,
Two maidens with their two mothers,
Two sisters with their two brothers.
Yet but six corps in all lie buried here,
All born legitimate, & from incest clear.

The above may be thus explained:—

Two widows, that were sisters-in-law, had each a son, who married each other’s mother, and by them had each a daughter.  Suppose one widow’s name Mary, and her son’s name John, and the other widow’s name Sarah, and her son’s James; this answers the fourth line.  Then suppose John married Sarah, and had a daughter by her, and James married Mary, and had a daughter also, these marriages answer the first, second, third, fifth, and sixth lines of the epitaph.

Sudden and unexpected was the end
Of our esteemed and beloved friend.
He gave to all his friends a sudden shock
By one day falling into Sunderland Dock.

Traveller, hurry not, as if you were going post-haste; in the most rapid journey you must stop at the post house.  Here repose the bones of MATTHIAS SCHULZEN, the most humble and most faithful Postmaster, for upwards of Twenty-five years, of His Majesty, Frederick, King of Prussia.  He arrived 1655; and afterwards travelled with distinction in life’s pilgrimage, by walking courses in the Schools and Universities.  He carefully performed his duties as a Christian, and when the post of misfortune came, he behaved according to the letter of divine consolation.  His body, however, ultimately being enfeebled, he was prepared to attend the signal given by the post of death; when his soul set off on her pleasing journey for Paradise, the 2nd of June, 1711; and his body afterwards was committed to this silent tomb.  Reader, in thy pilgrimage through life, be mindful of the prophetic post of Death!

Dear Husband, now my life is past,
And I am stuck in Earth so fast,
I pray no sorrow for me take,
But love my Children, for my sake;—

Hamburgh.

“O   Mors   Cur   Deus   Negat   Vitam
be   te    bis    nos    bis    nam.”

Solution.

O! Superbe! Mors Super--te!
Cur Superbis?
Deus Supernos! negat Superbis
Vitam Supernam.

“Carolus hoc busto Burgundæ gloria gentis,
Conditur, Europæ qui fuit ante timor.”

Near the left wall in the Protestant-ground at Rome is a monument to Lord Barrington, and a tombstone to the infant child of Mr. William Lambton:—

Go thou, white in thy soul, and fill a throne
Of innocence and purity in heaven!

Silo Princeps Fecit.

At the entrance of the Church of St. Salvador in the city of Oviedo, in Spain, is a most remarkable tomb, erected by a prince named Silo, with this very curious Latin inscription which may be read 270 ways by beginning with the capital letter S in the centre.

This grave holds Caspar Schink, who came to dine,
And taste the noblest vintage of the Rhine;
Three nights he sat, and thirty bottles drank,
Then lifeless by the board of Bacchus sank.
One only comfort have we in the case,—
The trump will raise him in the proper place.

Here lies Peg, that drunken sot,
Who dearly loved her jug and pot;
There she lies, as sure as can be,
She killed herself by drinking brandy.

The following was written by Capt. Morris on Edward Heardson, thirty years Cook to the Beef Steak Society.

Ann Short.

Ann Short, O Lord, of praising thee,
   Nothing I can do is right;
Needy and naked, poor I be,
   Short, Lord, I am of sight:
How short I am of love and grace!
   Of everything I’m short,
Renew me, then I’ll follow peace
   Through good and bad report.

In the Cathedral of Sienna, celebrated for its floor inlaid with the History of the New Testament, is the following singular Epitaph, probably placed there as a memento to Italian Toby Philpots:—

“Wine gives life; it was death to me, I could not behold the dawn of morning in a sober state.  Even my bones are now thirsty.  Stranger, sprinkle my grave with wine; empty the flaggons and come.  Farewell Drinkers!”

Over a grave in Prince Edward’s Island.

Here lies the body of poor Charles Lamb,
Killed by a tree that fell slap bang.

Here lies the body of Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one;
Pray for the soul of Gabriel John,
You may if you please,
Or let it alone;
For its all one
To Gabriel John,
Who died in the year of a thousand and one.

Here lies John Bunn,
Who was killed by a gun;
His name wasn’t Bun, his real name was Wood,
But Wood wouldn’t rhyme with gun, so I thought Bun should.

’Twas by a fall I caught my death;
No man can tell his time or breath;
I might have died as soon as then
If I had had physician men.

On a Grocer.

Garret some call’d him,
   but that was too hye;
His name is Garrard
   who now here doth lie;
Weepe not for him,
   since he is gone before
To heaven, where Grocers
   there are many more.

THE END.

F. Pickton, Printer, Perry’s Place, 29 Oxford Street.

NOTES.