Curious Epitaphs, Collected from the Graveyards of Great Britain and Ireland.

Edward Cave,

who, without interest, fortune, or connection, by the native force of his own genius, assisted only by a classical education, which he received at the Grammar School of this town, planned, executed, and established a literary work called

The Gentleman’s Magazine,

whereby he acquired an ample fortune, the whole of which devolved to his family.

Here also liesThe body of William Cave,

second son of the said Joseph Cave, who died May 2, 1757, aged 62 years, and who, having survived his elder brother

Edward Cave,

inherited from him a competent estate; and, in gratitude to his benefactor, ordered this monument to perpetuate his memory.

He lived a patriarch in his numerous race,And shew’d in charity a Christian’s grace:Whate’er a friend or parent feels he knew;His hand was open, and his heart was true;In what he gain’d and gave, he taught mankindA grateful always is a generous mind.Here rests his clay! his soul must ever rest,Who bless’d when living, dying must be blest.

The well-known blacksmith’s epitaph, said to be written by the poet Hayley, may be found in many churchyards in this country. It formed the subject of a sermon delivered on Sunday, the 27th day of August, 1837, by the then Vicar of Crich, Derbyshire, to a large assembly. We are told that the vicar appeared much excited, and read the prayers in a hurried manner. Without leaving the desk, he proceeded to address his flock for the last time; and the following is the substance thereof: “To-morrow, my friends, this living will be vacant, and if any one of you is desirous of becoming my successor he has now an opportunity. Let him use his influence, and who can tell but he may be honoured with the title of Vicar of Crich. As this is my last address, I shall only say, had I been a blacksmith, or a son of Vulcan, the following lines might not have been inappropriate: —

My sledge and hammer lie reclined,My bellows, too, have lost their wind;My fire’s extinct, my forge decayed,And in the dust my vice is laid.My coal is spent, my iron’s gone,My nails are drove, my work is done;My fire-dried corpse lies here at rest,And, smoke-like, soars up to be bless’d.

If you expect anything more, you are deceived; for I shall only say, Friends, farewell, farewell!” The effect of this address was too visible to pass unnoticed. Some appeared as if awakened from a fearful dream, and gazed at each other in silent astonishment; others for whom it was too powerful for their risible nerves to resist, burst into boisterous laughter, while one and all slowly retired from the scene, to exercise their future cogitations on the farewell discourse of their late pastor.

From Silkstone churchyard we have the following on a Potter and his wife: —

In memory of John Taylor, of Silkstone, potter, who departed this life, July 14th, Anno Domini 1815, aged 72 years.

Also Hannah, his wife, who departed this life, August 13th, 1815, aged 68 years.

Out of the clay they got their daily bread,Of clay were also made.Returned to clay they now lie dead,Where all that’s left must shortly go.To live without him his wife she tried,Found the task hard, fell sick, and died.And now in peace their bodies lay,Until the dead be called away,And moulded into spiritual clay.

On a poor woman who kept an earthenware shop at Chester, the following epitaph was composed: —

Beneath this stone lies Catherine Gray,Changed to a lifeless lump of clay;By earth and clay she got her pelf,And now she’s turned to earth herself.Ye weeping friends, let me advise,Abate your tears and dry your eyes;For what avails a flood of tears?Who knows but in a course of years,In some tall pitcher or brown pan,She in her shop may be again.

Our next is from the churchyard of Aliscombe, Devonshire: —

Here lies the remains of James Pady, brickmaker, late of this parish, in hopes that his clay will be remoulded in a workmanlike manner, far superior to his former perishable materials.

Keep death and judgment always in your eye,Or else the devil off with you will fly,And in his kiln with brimstone ever fry:If you neglect the narrow road to seek,Christ will reject you, like a half-burnt brick!

In the old churchyard of Bullingham, on the gravestone of a builder, the following lines appear: —

This humble stone is o’er a builder’s bed,Tho’ raised on high by fame, low lies his head.His rule and compass are now locked up in store.Others may build, but he will build no more.His house of clay so frail, could hold no longer —May he in heaven be tenant of a stronger!

In Colton churchyard, Staffordshire, is a mason’s tombstone decorated with carving of square and compass, in relief, and bearing the following characteristic inscription: —

Sacred to the memory ofJames Heywood,Who died May 4th, 1804, in the 55thyear of his ageThe corner-stone I often times have dress’d;In Christ, the corner-stone, I now find rest.Though by the Builder he rejected were,He is my God, my Rock, I build on here.

In the churchyard of Longnor the following quaint epitaph is placed over the remains of a carpenter: —

InMemory of SamuelBagshaw late of Harding-boothwho departed this life June the5th 1787 aged 71 yearsBeneath lie mouldering into DustA Carpenter’s Remains.A man laborious, honest, just: his Character sustains.In seventy-one revolving YearsHe sow’d no Seeds of Strife;With Ax and Saw, Line, Rule and Square, employed his careful life.But Death who view’d his peaceful LotHis Tree of Life assail’dHis Grave was made upon this spot, and his last Branch he nail’d.

Our next is from Hessle, near Hull, where over the remains of George Prissick, plumber and glazier, is the following epitaph: —

Adieu, my friend, my thread of life is spun;The diamond will not cut, the solder will not run;My body’s turned to ashes, my grief and troubles past,I’ve left no one to worldly care – and I shall rise at last.

On a dyer, from the church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth, we have as follows: —

Here lies a man who first did dye,When he was twenty four,And yet he lived to reach the age,Of hoary hairs, fourscore.But now he’s gone, and certain ’tisHe’ll not dye any more.

In Sleaford churchyard, on Henry Fox, a weaver, the following lines are inscribed: —

Of tender thread this mortal web is made,The woof and warp and colours early fade;When power divine awakes the sleeping dust,He gives immortal garments to the just.

Our next, epitaph from Weston, is placed over the remains of a useful member of society in his time: —

Here lies entomb’d within this vault so dark,A tailor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and parish clerk;Death snatch’d him hence, and also from him tookHis needle, thimble, sword, and prayer-book.He could not work, nor fight, – what then?He left the world, and faintly cried, “Amen!”

On an Oxford bellows-maker, the following lines were written: —

Here lyeth John Cruker, a maker of bellowes,His craftes-master and King of good fellowes;Yet when he came to the hour of his death,He that made bellowes, could not make breath.

The next epitaph, on Joseph Blakett, poet and shoemaker of Seaham, is said to be from Byron’s pen: —

Stranger! behold interr’d togetherThe souls of learning and of leather.Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl —You’ll find his relics in a stall.His work was neat, and often foundWell-stitched and with morocco bound.Tread lightly – where the bard is laidWe cannot mend the shoe he made;Yet he is happy in his hole,With verse immortal as his sole.But still to business he held fast,And stuck to Phœbus to the last.Then who shall say so good a fellowWas only leather and prunella?For character – he did not lack it,And if he did – ’twere shame to Black it!

The following lines are on a cobbler: —

Death at a cobbler’s door oft made a stand,But always found him on the mending hand;At length Death came, in very dirty weather,And ripp’d the soul from off the upper leather:The cobbler lost his all, – Death gave his last,And buried in oblivion all the past.

Respecting Robert Gray, a correspondent writes: He was a native of Taunton, and at an early age he lost his parents, and went to London to seek his fortune. Here, as an errand boy, he behaved so well, that his master took him apprentice, and afterwards set him up in business, by which he made a large fortune. In his old age he retired from trade and returned to Taunton, where he founded a hospital. On his monument is the following inscription: —

Taunton bore him; London bred him;Piety train’d him; Virtue led him;Earth enrich’d him; Heaven possess’d him;Taunton bless’d him; London bless’d him:This thankful town, that mindful city,Share his piety and pity,What he gave, and how he gave it,Ask the poor, and you shall have it.Gentle reader, may Heaven strikeThy tender heart to do the like;And now thy eyes have read his story,Give him the praise, and God the glory.

He died at the age of 65 years, in 1635.

In Rotherham churchyard the following is inscribed on a miller: —

In memory ofEdward Swair,who departed this life, June 16, 1781Here lies a man which Farmers lov’dWho always to them constant proved;Dealt with freedom, Just and Fair —An honest miller all declare.

On a Bristol baker we have the following: —

Here lies Tho. Turar, and Mary, his wife. He was twice Master of the Company of Bakers, and twice Churchwarden of this parish. He died March 6, 1654. She died May 8th, 1643.

Like to the baker’s oven is the grave,Wherein the bodyes of the faithful haveA setting in, and where they do remainIn hopes to rise, and to be drawn again;Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead,Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.

Here are some witty lines on a carpenter named John Spong, who died 1739, and is buried in Ockham churchyard: —

Who many a sturdy oak has laid along,Fell’d by Death’s surer hatchet, here lies John Spong.Post oft he made, yet ne’er a place could getAnd lived by railing, tho’ he was no wit.Old saws he had, although no antiquarian;And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian.Long lived he Ockham’s favourite architect,And lasting as his fame a tomb t’ erect,In vain we seek an artist such as he,Whose pales and piles were for eternity.

On the tomb of an auctioneer in the churchyard at Corby, in the county of Lincoln, we have found: —

Beneath this stone, facetious wightLies all that’s left of Poor Joe Wright;Few heads with knowledge more informed,Few hearts with friendship better warmed;With ready wit and humour broad,He pleased the peasant, squire, and lord;Until grim death, with visage queer,Assumed Joe’s trade of Auctioneer,Made him the Lot to practise on,With “going, going,” and anonHe knocked him down to “Poor Joe’s gone!”

In Wimbledon churchyard is the grave of John Martin, a natural son of Don John Emanuel, King of Portugal. He was sent to this country about the year 1712, to be out of the way of his friends, and after several changes of circumstances, ultimately became a gardener. It will be seen from the following epitaph that he won the esteem of his employers: —

To the memory of John Martin, gardener, a native of Portugal, who cultivated here, with industry and success, the same ground under three masters, forty years.

Though skilful and experienced,He was modest and unassuming;And tho’ faithful to his masters,And with reason esteemed,He was kind to his fellow-servants,And was therefore beloved.His family and neighbours lamented his death,As he was a careful husband, a tender father,and an honest man.

This character of him is given to posterity by his last master, willingly because deservedly, as a lasting testimony of his great regard for so good a servant.

He died March 30th, 1760. Aged 66 years.For public service grateful nations raiseProud structures, which excite to deeds of praise;While private services, in corners thrown,Howe’er deserving, never gain a stone.But are not lilies, which the valleys hide,Perfect as cedars, tho’ the valley’s pride?Let, then, the violets their fragrance breathe,And pines their ever-verdant branches wreatheAround his grave, who from their tender birthUpreared both dwarf and giant sons of earth,And tho’ himself exotic, lived to seeTrees of his raising droop as well as he.Those were his care, while his own bending age,His master propp’d and screened from winter’s rage,Till down he gently fell, then with a tearHe bade his sorrowing sons transport him here.But tho’ in weakness planted, as his fruitAlways bespoke the goodness of his root,The spirit quickening, he in power shall riseWith leaf unfading under happier skies.

The next is on the Tradescants, famous gardeners and botanists at Lambeth. In 1657 Mr. Tradescant, Junr., presented to the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, a remarkable cabinet of curiosities: —

Know, stranger, ere thou pass, beneath this stoneLye John Tradescant, grandsire, father, son;The last died in his spring; the other twoLiv’d till they had travell’d art and nature through;As by their choice collections may appear,Of what is rare, in land, in sea, in air;Whilst they (as Homer’s Iliad in a nut)A world of wonders in one closet shut;These famous antiquarians, that had beenBoth gard’ners to the ROSE and LILY QUEEN,Transplanted now themselves, sleep here; and whenAngels shall with trumpets waken men,And fire shall purge the world, these hence shall rise,And change this garden for a paradise.

We have here an epitaph on a grocer, culled from the Rev. C. W. Bardsley’s “Memorials of St. Anne’s Church,” Manchester. In a note about the name of Howard, the author says: “Poor John Howard’s friends gave him an unfortunate epitaph – one, too, that reflected unkindly upon his wife. It may still be seen in the churchyard. – Here lyeth the body of John Howard, who died Jan. 2, 1800, aged 84 years; fifty years a respectable grocer, and an honest man. As it is further stated that his wife died in 1749, fifty years before, it would seem that her husband’s honesty dated from the day of her decease. Mrs. Malaprop herself, in her happiest moments, could not have beaten this inscription.”

BACCHANALIAN EPITAPHS

Some singular epitaphs are to be found over the remains of men who either manufactured, dispensed, or loved the social glass. In the churchyard of Newhaven, the Sussex, following may be seen on the grave of a brewer:

To the Memory ofThomas Tipper whodeparted this life May the 14th1785 Aged 54 YearsReader, with kind regard this Grave surveyNor heedless pass where Tipper’s ashes lay,Honest he was, ingenuous, blunt, and kind;And dared do, what few dare do, speak his mind,Philosophy and History well he knew,Was versed in Physick and in Surgery too,The best old Stingo he both brewed and sold,Nor did one knavish act to get his Gold.He played through Life a varied comic part,And knew immortal Hudibras by heart.Reader, in real truth, such was the Man,Be better, wiser, laugh more if you can.

The next, on John Scott, a Liverpool brewer, is rather rich in puns: —

Poor John Scott lies buried here;Although he was both hale and stout,Death stretched him on the bitter bier.In another world he hops about.

On a Butler in Ollerton church-yard is the following curious epitaph: —

Beneath the droppings of this spout,Here lies the body once so stout,Of Francis Thompson.A soul this carcase once possess’d,Which of its virtues was caress’d,By all who knew the owner best.The Rufford records can declare,His actions, who for seventy year,Both drew and drank its potent beer;Fame mentions not in all that time,In this great Butler the least crime,To stain his reputation.To envy’s self we now appeal,If aught of fault she can reveal,To make her declaration.Here rest good shade, nor hell nor vermin fear,Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.He died July 6th, 1739.

We will next give a few epitaphs on publicans. Our first is from Pannal churchyard; it is on Joseph Thackerey, who died on the 26th of November, 1791: —

In the year of our Lord 1740I came to the Crown;In 1791 they laid me down.

The following is from the graveyard of Upton-on-Severn, and placed to the memory of a publican. The lines, it will be seen, are a dexterous weaving of the spiritual with the temporal: —

Beneath this stone, in hope of Zion,Doth lie the landlord of the “Lion,”His son keeps on the business still,Resign’d unto the Heavenly will.

In 1789 passed away the landlady of the “Pig and Whistle,” Greenwich, and the following lines were inscribed to her memory: —

Assign’d by Providence to rule a tap,My days pass’d gibly, till an awkward rap,Some way, like bankruptcy, impell’d me down.But up I got again and shook my gownIn gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever,Blithe as the lark and gay as sunny weather;Composed with creditors, at five in pound,And frolick’d on till laid beneath this ground.The debt of Nature must, you know, be paid,No trust from her – God grant extent in aid.

On an inn-keeper in Stockbridge, the next may be seen: —

In memory ofJohn Buckett,Many years landlord of the King’sHead Inn, in this Borough,Who departed this life Nov. 2, 1802Aged 67 yearsAnd is, alas! poor Buckett gone?Farewell, convivial, honest John.Oft at the well, by fatal stroke,Buckets, like pitchers, must be broke.In this same motley shifting scene,How various have thy fortunes been!Now lifted high – now sinking low.To-day thy brim would overflow,Thy bounty then would all supply,To fill and drink, and leave thee dry;To-morrow sunk as in a well,Content, unseen, with truth to dwell:But high or low, or wet or dry,No rotten stave could malice spy.Then rise, immortal Buckett, rise,And claim thy station in the skies;’Twixt Amphora and Pisces shine,Still guarding Stockbridge with thy sign.

From the “Sportive Wit: the Muses’ Merriment,” issued in 1656, we extract the following lines on John Taylor, “the Water Poet,” who was a native of Gloucester, and died in Phœnix Alley, London, in the 75th year of his age. You may find him, if the worms have not devoured him, in Covent Garden Churchyard: —

Here lies John Taylor, without rime or reason,For death struck his muse in so cold a season,That Jack lost the use of his scullers to row:The chill pate rascal would not let his boat go.Alas, poor Jack Taylor! this ’tis to drink aleWith nutmegs and ginger, with a taste though stale,It drencht thee in rimes. Hadst thou been of the packWith Draiton and Johnson to quaff off thy sack,They’d infus’d thee a genius should ne’er expire,And have thaw’d thy muse with elemental fire.Yet still, for the honour of thy sprightly wit,Since some of thy fancies so handsomely hit,The nymphs of the rivers for thy relationSirnamed thee the water-poet of the nation.Who can write more of thee let him do’t for me.A – take all rimers, Jack Taylor, but thee.Weep not, reader, if thou canst chuse,Over the stone of so merry a muse.

Robert Burns wrote the following epitaph on John Dove, innkeeper, Mauchline: —

Here lies Johnny Pigeon:What was his religion?Whae’er desires to ken,To some other warl’Maun follow the carl,For here Johnny had none!Strong ale was ablution —Small beer persecution,A dram was memento mori;But a full flowing bowlWas the saving of his soul,And port was celestial glory.

We extract, from a collection of epitaphs, the following 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 or small.

It is stated in Mr. J. Potter Briscoe’s entertaining volume, “Nottinghamshire Facts and Fictions,” that in the churchyard of Edwalton is a gravestone to the memory of Mrs. Freland, a considerable land-owner, who died in 1741; but who, it would appear from the inscription, was a very free liver, for her memorial says:

She drank good ale, strong punch and wine,And lived to the age of ninety-nine.

A gravestone in Darneth Churchyard, near Dartford, bears the following epitaph: —

Oh, the liquor he did love, but never will no more,For what he lov’d did turn his foe:For on the 28th of January 1741, that fatal day,The Debt he owed he then did pay.

At Chatham, on a drunkard, good advice is given: —

Weep not for him, the warmest tear that’s shedFalls unavailing o’er the unconscious dead;Take the advice these friendly lines would give,Live not to drink, but only drink to live.

From Tonbridge churchyard we glean the following: —

Hail!This stone marks the spotWhere a notorious sotDoth lie;Whether at rest or notIt matters notTo you or IOft to the “Lion” he went to fill his hornNow to the “Grave” he’s gone to get it warm

Beered by public subscription by his hale and stout companions, who deeply lament his absence.

On a gravestone in the churchyard of Eton, placed to the memory of an innkeeper, it is stated: —

Life’s an inn; my house will shew it:I thought so once, but now I know it.Man’s life is but a winter’s day;Some only breakfast and away;Others to dinner stop, and are full fed;The oldest man but sups and then to bed:Large is his debt who lingers out the day;He who goes soonest has the least to pay.

Similar epitaphs to the foregoing may be found in many churchyards in this country. In Micklehurst churchyard, an inscription runs thus: —

Life is an Inn, where all men bait,The waiter, Time, the landlord, Fate;Death is the score by all men due,I’ve paid my shot – and so must you.

In the old burial ground in Castle Street, Hull, on the gravestone of a boy, a slightly different version of the rhyme appears: —

In memory ofJohn, the Son of John andAnn Bywater, died 25th January,1815, aged 14 yearsLife’s like an Inn, where Travellers stay,Some only breakfast and away;Others to dinner stay, and are full fed;The oldest only sup and go to bed;Long is the bill who lingers out the day,Who goes the soonest has the least to pay.

The churchyard of Melton Mowbray furnishes another rendering of the lines: —

This world’s an Inn, and I her guest:I’ve eat and drank and took my restWith her awhile, and now I payHer lavish bill and go my way.

The foregoing inscriptions, comparing life to a house, remind us of a curious inscription in Folkestone churchyard: —

In memory ofRebecca Rogers,who died Aug. 22, 1688,Aged 44 yearsA house she hath, it’s made of such good fashionThe tenant ne’er shall pay for reparation,Nor will her landlord ever raise the rent,Or turn her out of doors for non-payment;From chimney money, too, this call is free,To such a house, who would not tenant be.

In “Chronicles of the Tombs,” by Thomas Joseph Pettigrew, published in 1857, it is stated respecting the foregoing epitaph: “Smoke money or chimney money is now collected at Battle, in Sussex, each householder paying one penny to the Lord of the Manor. It is also levied upon the inhabitants of the New Forest, in Hants, for the right of cutting peat and turf for fuel. And from ‘Audley’s Companion to the Almanac,’ page 76, we learn that ‘anciently, even in England, Whitsun farthings, or smoke farthings, were a composition for offerings made in the Whitsun week, by every man who occupied a house with a chimney, to the cathedral of the diocese in which he lived.’ The late Mr. E. B. Price has observed, in Notes and Queries, (Vol. ii. p. 379), that there is a church at Northampton, upon which is an inscription recording that the expense of repairing it was defrayed by a grant of chimney money for, I believe, seven years, temp. Charles II.”

In the burial-ground of St. Michael’s Church, London, was interred one of the waiters of the famous Boar’s Head Tavern: —

Here lieth the bodye of Robert Preston, late Drawer at the Boar’s Head Tavern, Great Eastcheap, who departed this Life, March 16, Anno Domini 1730, aged 27 years.

Bacchus, to give the topeing world surprize,Produc’d one sober son, and here he lies.Tho’ nurs’d among full Hogsheads, he defy’dThe charm of wine and ev’ry vice beside.O Reader, if to Justice thou’rt inclined,Keep Honest Preston daily in thy Mind.He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,Had sundry virtues that outweighed his fauts, (sic)You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.

The next example from Abesford, on an exciseman, is entitled to a place among Bacchanalian epitaphs: —

No supervisor’s check he fears —Now no commissioner obeys;He’s free from cares, entreaties, tears,And all the heavenly oil surveys.

In the churchyard of North Wingfield, Derbyshire, a gravestone bears the following inscription: —

In Memory of Thomas, son of John and Mary Clay, who departed this life December 16th 1724, in the 40th year of his age.

What though no mournful kindred standAround the solemn bier,No parents wring the trembling hand,Or drop the silent tear.No costly oak adorned with artMy weary limbs inclose;No friends impart a winding-sheetTo deck my last repose.

The cause of the foregoing curious epitaph is thus explained. Thomas Clay was a man of intemperate habits, and at the time of his death was indebted to the village innkeeper, named Adlington, to the amount of twenty pounds. The publican resolved to seize the body; but the parents of the deceased carefully kept the door locked until the day appointed for the funeral. As soon as the door was opened, Adlington rushed into the house, seized the corpse, and placed it on a form in the open street in front of the residence of the parents of the departed. Clay’s friends refused to discharge the publican’s account. After the body had been exposed for several days, Adlington committed it to the ground in a bacon chest.