Written in Ink

Epitaphs from different places and times.

Here lies Joseph Trowlup. Who made yon stones roll up. When death took his soul up. His body filled this hole up.

Beneath this stone our baby lies. It neither cries nor hollers. It lived but one and twenty days, and cost us forty dollars.

Against his will. Here lies George Hill. Who from a cliff fell down quite stiff. When it happened is not known. Therefore not mentioned on this stone.

He got a fish bone in his throat, and then he sang an angels note.

Tho' Boreas' blast and boisterous waves have tost me to and fro. In spite of both, by God's decree, I harbor here below. Where I do now at anchor ride with many of our fleet. Yet once again I must set sail my Admiral Christ to meet.

Here lies the man Richard, and Mary his wife. Whose surname was Prichard. They lived without strife; and the reason was plain, they abounded in riches. They had no care nor pain, and his wife wore the breeches.

He heard the angels calling him. From the celestial shore. He flapped his wings and away he went, to make one angel more.

Ingenious youth, thou art laid in dust. Thy friends, for thee, in tears did burst.

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

Here lies ( The Lord have mercy on her) one of her Majesty's maids of honour. She was young, slender, and pretty; she died a maid- the mores the pity.

Entombed within this vault a lawyer lies. Who, fame assureth is was just and wise. An able advocate and honest too; that's wondrous strange, indeed, if it be true.

Don't weep for me , Eliza dear. I am not dead, but sleeping here. As I am now so you must be, prepare for death and follow me.

Ah! Cruel death, to make 3 meals of one! To taste and eat, and eat till all was gone. But know, thou tyrant! When trump shall call, he'll find his feet , and stand when thou shalt fall.

Tread softly mortals O'er the bones of this world's wonder, Captain Jones, who told his Glorious deeds to many. Yet, never was believed by any. Posterity let this suffice. He swore all's true, yet here he lies.

Don't weep for me, my wife most dear, but still remember I lie here. Altho' cut down when little past my bloom, shed not now tear upon my tomb.

Here lies the body of Johnny Haskell. A lying thieving, cheating rascal. He always lied and now he lies, He has no soul and cannot rise.

Here lies Ned Hyde because he died. If it had been his sister, We should not have missed her. But would rather it had been his father Or for the good of the nation The whole generation.

Here lies entombed one Roger Morton whose sudden death was early brought on; trying one day his corn to mow off, the razor slipped and cut his toe off. The toe, or rather what it grew to. An inflammation quickly flew to; the parts they took to mortifying, and poor dear Roger took to dying.


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