Part 7

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Oldys thus translates from Camden an epitaph upon a tippling red-nosed ballad maker, of the time of Shakespeare:--

Dead drunk, here Elderton doth lie: Dead as he is, he still is dry; So of him it may well be said, Here he, but not his thirst, is laid.

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On a Juggler.

Death came to see thy tricks, and cut in twain Thy thread. Why did'st not make it whole again?

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To a Magistrate's Widow.

Her husband died, and while she tried To live behind, could not, and died.

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Epitaph on the Parson of a parish.

Come let us rejoice merry boys at his fall, For egad, had he lived he'd a buried us all.

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On a Baker.

Richard Fuller lies buried here, Do not withhold the crystal tear, For when he liv'd he daily fed Woman and man and child with bread. But now alas he's turned to dust, As thou and I and all soon must, And lies beneath this turf so green, Where worms do daily feed on him.

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An Original.

Here lies fast asleep, awake me who can, The medley of passion and follies, a Man Who sometimes lov'd licence and sometimes restraint, Too much of the sinner, too little of saint; From quarter to quarter I shifted my tack; Gainst the evils of life a most notable quack; But, alas! I soon found the defects of my skill, And my nostrums in practice proved treacherous still; From life's certain ills 'twas in vain to seek ease, The remedy oft proved another disease; What in rapture began often ended in sorrow, And the pleasure to-day brought reflection to-morrow; When each action was o'er and its errors were seen, Then I viewed with surprise the strange thing I had been; My body and mind were so oddly contrived, That at each other's failing both parties conniv'd, Imprudence of mind brought on sickness and pain, The body diseas'd paid the debt back again. Thus coupled together life's journey they pass'd, Till they wrangled and jangled and parted at last; Thus tired and weary, I've finished my course, And glad it is bed time, and things are no worse.

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On a Publican.

Thomas Thompson's buried here, And what is more he's in his bier, In life thy bier did thee surround, And now with thee is in the ground.

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On a Porter, who died suddenly under a load.

Pack'd up within these dark abodes, Lies one in life inur'd to loads, Which oft he carried 'tis well known, Till Death pass'd by and threw him down.

When he that carried loads before, Became a load which others bore To this his inn, where, as they say, They leave him till another day.

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On a Publican.

A jolly landlord once was I, And kept the Old King's Head hard by, Sold mead and gin, cider and beer, And eke all other kinds of cheer, Till death my license took away And put me in this house of clay, A house at which you all must call, Sooner or later, great and small.

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On a Parish Clerk.

Here lies, within this tomb so calm, Old Giles, pray sound his knell, Who thought no song was like a psalm, No music like a bell.

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Here lies John Adams, who received a thump Right in the forehead from the parish pump, Which gave him his quietus in the end, Tho' many doctors did his case attend.

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On Mr. Cumming.

"Give me the best of men," said Death To Nature--"quick, no humming," She sought the man who lies beneath, And answered, "Death, he's Cumming."

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On Sir Philip Sidney.

_England_ hath his body, for she it fed, _Netherland_ his blood, in her defence shed; The _Heavens_ hath his soul, The _Arts_ have his fame, The _Soldier_ his grief, The _World_ his good name.

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There is a touching sorrow conveyed in the following most ungrammatical verses; evidently composed by one of the unlettered parents themselves:--

Beneath this stone his own dear child, Whose gone from we For ever more unto eternity; Where we do hope that we shall go to he, But him can never more come back to we.

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On a Chemist.

Here lyeth, to digest, macerate, and amalgamate With Clay, In Balneo Arenae Stratum super Stratum, The Residuum, Terra damnata, and Caput Mortuum Of Boyle Godfry, Chemist And M.D. A man, who in his earthly Laboratory Pursued various Processes to obtain Areanum Vitae Or the secret to live; Also Aurum Vitae, Or, the art of getting, rather than making Gold. Alchemist like, All his Labour and Profection, As Mercury in the Fire evaporated in Fuomo When he dissolv'd to his first Principles, He departed as poor As the last Drops of an Alembic; For riches are not poured On the Adepts of this world. Though fond of News, he carefully avoided The Fermentation, Effervescence, And Decrepitation of this Life. Full Seventy years his exalted Essence Was Hermetically sealed in its Terene Mattras, But the radical Moisture being exhausted, The Elixir Vitae spent, And exsiccated to a Cuticle, He could not suspend longer in his Vehicle But precipitated Gradatim Per Campanam. To his Original Dust. May that light, brighter than Bolognian Phosphorus, Preserve him from the Athanor, Empyremna, & Of the other World. Depurate him from the Taces and Scoria of this; Highly Rectify'd & Volatize His AEtheral Spirit, Bring it over the Helm of the Retort of this Globe, place it in a proper Recipient, Or Chrystalline Orb, Among the elect of the Flowers of Benjamin, Never to be Saturated, Till the General Resuscitation, Deflagration, Calcination, And Sublimation of all Things.

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On Mr. Partridge, who died in May.

What! kill a partridge in the month of May! Was that done like a sportsman? Eh, Death, Eh?

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On Du Bois, Born in a Baggage Waggon, and killed in a Duel.

Begot in a cart, in a cart first drew breath, Carte and tierce were his life, and a carte was his death.

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On Mr. Nightingale, Architect.

As the birds were the first of the architect kind, And are still better builders than men, What wonders may spring from a Nightingale's mind, When St. Paul's was produced by a Wren.

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On Mr. Churchill.

Says Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead." Says Richard, "Tom, you lie; Old Rancour the report has spread, But Genius cannot die."

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On Foote, the Mimic and Dramatist, Who, several years before his death, lost one of his nether limbs.

Here a pickled rogue lies whom we could not preserve, Though his pickle was true Attic salt; One Foote was his name, and one leg did him serve, Though his wit was known never to halt. A most precious limb and a rare precious pate, With one limb taken off for wise ends; Yet the hobbler, in spite of the hitch in his gait, Never failed to take off his best friends: Taking off friends and foes, both in manner and voice, Was his practice for pastime or pelf; For which 'twere no wonder, if both should rejoice At the day when he took off himself.

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On James Straw, an Attorney.

Hic jacet Jacobus Straw, Who forty years, Sir, followed the law, And when he died, The Devil cried, "Jemmy, gie's your paw."

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On Robert Sleath.

Who kept the turnpike at Worcester, and was noted for having once demanded toll of George III., when his Majesty was going on a visit to Bishop Hurd.

On Wednesday last, old Robert Sleath Passed through the turnpike gate of death. To him would death no toll abate, Who stopped the King at Wor'ster gate.

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On Ned Purdon.

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery free Who long was a bookseller's hack. He led such a damnable life in this world I don't think he'll ever come back.

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On Stephen Remnant.

Here's a Remnant of life, and a Remnant of death, Taken off both at once in a Remnant of breath. To mortality this gives a happy release, For what was the Remnant, proves now the whole piece.

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A form of enigmatical epitaph is in Llandham Churchyard, Anglesea, and has been frequently printed. From the _Cambrian Register_, 1795 (Vol. I. p. 441), I learn that it was translated by Jo. Pulestone, Feb. 5, 1666. The subject of it was Eva, daughter of Meredidd ap Rees ap Howel, of Bodowyr, and written by Arthur Kynaston, of Pont y Byrsley, son of Francis Kynaston.

Here lyes, by name, the world's mother, By nature, my aunt, sister to my mother; My grandmother, mother to my mother; My great grandmother, mother to my grandmother; My grandfather's daughter and his mother; All which may rightly be, Without the breach of consanguinity.

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On Robert Pemberton.

Here lies _Robin_, but not _Robin Hood_; Here lies _Robin_ that never did good; Here lies _Robin_ by heaven forsak'n; Here lies _Robin_--the devil may tak'n.

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On a Stay Maker.

Alive, unnumber'd stays he made, (He work'd industrious night and day;) E'en dead he still pursues his trade, For here _his bones will make a stay_.

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Brevity of life.

Man's life's a vapour, And full of woes; He cuts a caper, And down he goes.

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By Boileau, the Poet.

Here lies my wife, and Heaven knows, Not less for mine, than her repose!

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Here lies poor Thomas, and his Wife, Who led a pretty jarring life; But all is ended--do you see? He holds his tongue, and so does she.

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If drugs and physic could but save Us mortals from the dreary grave, 'Tis known that I took full enough Of the apothecaries' stuff To have prolonged life's busy feast To a full century at least; But spite of all the doctors' skill, Of daily draught and nightly pill, Reader, as sure as you're alive, I was sent here at twenty-five.

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Poor Jerry's Epitaph.

Here lies poor Jerry, Who always seem'd merry, But happiness needed. He tried all he could To be something good, But never succeeded. He married two wives: The first good, but somewhat quaint; The second very good--like a saint. In peace may they rest. And when they come to heaven, May they all be forgiven For marrying such a pest.

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On three infants.

If you're disposed to weep for sinners dead, About these children trouble not your head, Reserve your grief for them of riper years, They as has never sinned can't want no tears.

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On a Drunkard.

The draught is drunk, poor Tip is dead. He's top'd his last and reeled to bed.

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On a Rum and Milk Drinker.

Rum and milk I had in store, Till my poor belly could hold no more: It caused me to be so fat, My death was owing unto that.

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On Joseph Crump, a Musician.

Once ruddy and plump, But now a pale lump, Beneath this safe hump, Lies honest Joe Crump, Who wish'd to his neighbours no evil, Who, tho' by Death's thump He's laid on his rump, Yet up he shall jump When he hears the last trump, And triumph o'er Death and the Devil.

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On Sir Isaac Newton.

Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night, God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.

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An Attorney.

Here lieth one who often lied before, But now he lies here he lies no more.

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On Peter Wilson, Who was drowned.

Peter was in the ocean drown'd, A careless, hapless creature! And when his lifeless trunk was found, It was become Salt Peter.

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Here lies the body of an honest man. And when he died he owed nobody nothing.

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Good Friend for Jesus SAKE forbeare To diGG T--E Dust encloAsed HERE. Blest be T--E Man Y--T spares T--Es Stones And curst be He Y--T moves my Bones.

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Underneath this stone doth lie, As much beauty as could die; Which, when alive, did vigour give To as much beauty as could live.

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To the memory of Mary Clow, &c.

A vertuous wife, a loving mother, And one esteemed by all that knew her.

And to be short, to her praise, she was the woman that Solomon speaks of in the xxxi. chapter of the book of Proverbs, from the 10th verse to the end.

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Old Epitaph.

As I was so are ye, As I am You shall be, That I had that I gave, That I gave that I have, Thus I end all my cost, That I left that I lost.

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Epitaph on a Bell Ringer.

Stephen & time now are even, Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

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Here lies Elizabeth Wise. She died of Thunder sent from Heaven In 1777.

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On a Family cutt off by the Small Pox.

At once depriv'd of life, lies here, A family to virtue dear. Though far remov'd from regal state, Their virtues made them truly great. Lest one should feel the other's fall, Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.

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George Hardinge much indulged himself in versifying, and a curious instance in illustration occurred at Presteigne, in the spring of 1816, a few hours before his decease. An application was made by Messrs. Tippens, addressed to the judge "if living, or his executors," for the payment of a bill. The answer was penned by the Judge only three hours prior to his death, and was as follows:--

"Dear Messrs. Tippens, what is fear'd by you, Alas! the melancholy circumstance is true, That I am dead; and, more afflicting still, My legal assets cannot pay your bill. To think of this, I am almost broken hearted, Insolvent I, this earthly life departed; Dear Messrs. T., I am yours without a farthing, For executors and self,

George Hardinge."

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The manner of her death was thus, She was druv over by a Bus.

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Here lies Martha wife of Hugh, Born at St Ansell's, buried at Kew, Children in wedlock they had five, Three are dead & two are alive, Those who are living had much rather Die with the Mother than live with the Father.

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"The Body of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Printer, (like the cover of an old book, its contents torn out, and stripped of its lettering and gilding), lies here, food for worms; yet the work itself shall not be lost; for it will, as he believed, appear once more in a new and more beautiful edition, corrected and amended by THE AUTHOR!"

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Singular Epitaph.

Careless and thoughtless all my life, Stranger to every source of strife, And deeming each grave sage a fool, The law of nature was my rule. By which I learnt to duly measure My portion of desire and pleasure. 'Tis strange that here I lie you see, For death must have indulged a whim, At any time t' have thought of me, Who never once did think of him.

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On Earle the boxer.

Here lies James Earle the Pugilist, who on the 11th of April 1788 gave in.

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She lived genteely on a small income.

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Epitaph on a Gamester.

Here lies a gamester, poor but willing, Who left the room without a shilling, Losing each stake, till he had thrown His last, and lost the game to Death; If Paradise his soul has won, 'Twas a rare stroke of luck i'faith!

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On the death of Miss Eliza More, aged 14 years.

Here lies who never lied before, And one who never will lie More, To which there need be no more said, Than More the pity she is dead, For when alive she charmed us More Than all the Mores just gone before.

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On a Wife (by her Husband.)

Beneath this stone lies Katherine, my wife, In death my comfort, and my plague through life. Oh! liberty--but soft, I must not boast; She'll haunt me else, by jingo, with her ghost!

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"Here is a gentlewoman, who, if I may so speak of a gentlewoman departed, appears to have thought by no means small beer of herself:"--

A good mother I have been, Many troubles I have seen, All my life I've done my best, And so I hope my soul's at rest.

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On the death of a most amiable and beautiful young lady, of the name of Peach.

BY MR. BISSET.

DEATH long had wish'd within his reach, So sweet, so delicate a PEACH: He struck the Tree--the trunk lay mute; But _Angels_ bore away the _Fruit_!

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Here lies my poor wife, Without bed or blanket, But dead as a door nail, God be thanked.

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Epitaph on a violent Scold.

My spouse and I full many a year Liv'd man and wife together, I could no longer keep her here, She's gone--the Lord knows whither.

Of tongue she was exceeding free, I purpose not to flatter, Of all the wives I e'er did see, None sure like her could chatter.

Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her, I'm sure her soul is not in hell, For old Nick could ne'er abide her.

Which makes me guess she's gone aloft, For in the last great thunder, Methought I heard her well known voice Rending the skies asunder.

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On a Scolding Wife who died in her sleep.

Here lies the quintessence of noise and strife, Or, in one word, here lies a _scolding wife_; Had not Death took her when her mouth was shut, He durst not for his ears have touched the _slut_.

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Here lies my wife a sad slattern and shrew, If I said I regretted her--I should lie too.

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On a Scold.

Here lies, thank God, a woman who Quarrell'd and stormed her whole life through, Tread gently o'er her mould'ring form, Or else you'll raise another storm.

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On a Wife (by her Husband).

Here lies my poor wife, much lamented, She's happy, and I'm contented.

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One was our thought, One life we fought, One rest we both intended, Our bodies have to sleepe one grave, Our soules to God ascended.

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Conjugal Epitaph.

Here rest my spouse, no pair through life, So equal liv'd as we did; Alike we shared perpetual strife, Nor knew I rest till she did.

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An Epitaph upon a Scolding Woman. Another version. (From an old Book of Job.)

We lived one and twenty yeare, Like man and wife together; I could no longer have her heere, She's gone, I know not whither. If I could guesse, I doe professe, (I speak it not to flatter) Of all the women in the worlde, I never would come at her. Her body is bestowed well, A handsome grave doth hide her, And sure her soule is not in hell, The fiend could ne'er abide her. I think she mounted up on hie, For in the last great thunder, Mee thought I heard her voice on hie, Rending the clouds in sunder.

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Within this place a vertvous virgin lies, Much like those virgins that were counted wise, Her lamp of life by Death being now pvt ovt, Her lamp of grace doth still shine rovnd abovt, And thovgh her body here doth sleep in clay, Yet is her sovl still watchfvl for that day, When Christ the Bridegroom of her sovl shall come, To take her with him to the wedding roome.

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Amy Mitchell, 1724 aged 19.

Here lies a virgin cropt in youth, A Xtian both in name and truth, Forbear to mourn, she is not dead, But gone to marry Christ her head.

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On a Woman who had three Husbands.

Here lies the body of Mary Sextone, Who pleased three men, and never vexed one, That she can't say beneath the next stone.

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Marianne S--.

Conjuge (i?) nunquam satis plorandae Inane hoc, tamen ultimum, Amoris consecrat testimonium, Maritus, heu! superstes.

The above Epitaph, inscribed on a plain marble tablet in a village church near Bath, is one of the few in which the Latin language has been employed with the brief and profound pathos of ancient sepulchral inscriptions.

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Short was her life, Longer will be her rest; Christ call'd her home, Because he thought it best.

For she was born to die, To lay her body down, And young she did fly, Into the world unknown.

5 years & 9 months.

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Here lies my wife in earthly mould, Who when she lived did naught but scold. Peace! wake her not for now she's still, She _had_, but now _I_ have my will.

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Epitaph written by Sarah Dobson, wife of John Dobson, to be put on her tombstone after her decease:--

I now have fallen asleep--my troubles gone, For while on earth, I had full many a one, When I get up again--as Parson says, I hope that I shall see some better days. If Husband he should make a second suit His second wife will find that he's a _brute_. He often made my poor sad heart to sigh, And often made me weep from _one poor eye_, The other he knocked out by a violent blow, As all my Kinsfolk and my Neighbours know. I hope he will not serve his next rib so, But if he should, will put the two together, And through them stare while Satan tans his leather.

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On Jemmy Jewell.

'Tis odd, quite odd, that I should laugh, When I'm to write an epitaph. Here lies the bones of a rakish _Timmy_ Who was a _Jewell_ & a _Jemmy_.

He dealt in diamonds, garnets, rings, And twice ten thousand pretty things; Now he supplies Old _Nick_ with fuel, And there's an end of _Jemmy Jewell_.

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On Thomas Knowles & his Wife.