Arthur Wentworth Eaton - Funny Epitaphs

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.

Richard II, Act III, Scene ii.

Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.

Macbeth, Act III, Scene ii.

Let there be no inscription upon my tomb; let no man write my epitaph.

Robert Emmet.

Friend, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd
So very much is said,
One half will never be believ'd
The other never read.

An old American epitaph:

Under this sod, and under these trees,
Lieth the body of Samuel Pease;
He is not in this hole, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul and went up to God.

Another version:

Under this sod, beneath these trees,
Lyeth the pod of Solomon Pease.
Pease is not here, but only his pod,
He shelled out his soul, which went straight to his God.

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.

An Irishman wrote the following oft-quoted lines for his epitaph:

Here I lays,
Paddy O'Blase;
My body quite at its aise is,
With the tip of my nose
And the points of my toes
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

In Ballyporen (Ire.) churchyard, on Teague O'Brian, written by himself:

Here I at length repose,
My spirit now at aise is;
With the tips of my toes
And the point of my nose
Turned up to the roots of the daisies.

Here lies Richard Fothergill who met a violent death.
He was shot by a colt's revolver, old kind, brass mounted,
and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

A Cornwall churchyard is enriched with the following dainty verses:

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.

The death angel struck Alexander McGlue
And gave him protracted repose;
He wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe
And had a pink wart on his nose.

No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space
Over on the evergreen shore.
His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
At precisely a quarter past four.

At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:

He lived one hundred and five,
Sanguine and strong;
A hundred to five,
You live not so long.
Dy'd March 4, 1687.

This is all that remains of poor Ben Hough
He had forty-nine years and that was enough.
Of worldly goods he had his share,
And now he's gone to the Devil's snare.

In an old cemetery in Lyme, Conn.:

Close behind this stone
Here lies alone
Captain Reynolds Marvin,
Expecting his wife
When ends her life,
And we both are freed from sarvin'.

Here lies the body of Captain Gervase Scrope, of the family of
the Scropes of Bilton, in the county of York, who departed this life
26th August, Anno Domini 1705, aged 66.

An epitaph written by himself, in the agony and doloroes paines of the gout, and died soon after.

Here lies an old toss'd tennis ball.
Was racketted from spring to fall.
With so much heat and so much frost,
Time's arms for shame grew ty'rd at last.
Four kings in camps he truly served,
And from his loyalty ne'er swerved.
Father ruin'd, the son slighted,
And from the Crown ne'er requited.
Loss of Estate, Relations, Blood,
Was too well known, but did no good.
With long campaigns and paines o' th' Gout,
He could no longer hold it out.
Always a restless life he led,
Never at quiet till quite dead.
He married in his latter days
One who exceeds the common praise;
But wanting health still to make known
Her true affection and his own,
Death kindly came, all wants supply'd,
By giving Rest which life deny'd.

From a tombstone near Williamsport, Penn.:

Sacred to the Memory of
HENRY HARRIS,
Born June 27th, 1821, of Henry Harris
And Jane his Wife.
Died on the 4th of May, 1837, by the kick of a colt in his bowels.

Peaceable and quiet,
a friend to his father and mother,
and respected by all who knew him,
and went to the world where horses don't kick,
where sorrow and weeping is no more.

YATTENDON BERKS. 1770.

O Death, thy call was soon,
My pains were smart,
But I, prepared,
Was ready to depart
In hopes to Heaven, there to sit
With Saints and Angels bright,
Singing Hallelujahs
In which I took delight.

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.

Here lies the body of John Bidwell,
Who, when in life, wished his neighbors no evil.
In hopes up to jump
When he hears the last trump
And triumph over Death and the Devil.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man.

Goldsmith.

Beneath this stone of granite hard
Lies my own beloved pard.

ON A MR. PECK

Here lies a Peck, which some men say
Was first of all a Peck of clay;
This wrought with skill divine, while fresh,
Became a curious Peck of flesh.
Through various forms its Maker ran,
Then adding breath made Peck a man;
Full fifty years Peck felt life's troubles
Till death relieved a Peck of troubles;
Then fell poor Peck, as all things must.
And here he lies,a Peck of dust.

Here lies John Hill, a man of skill,
His age was five times ten,
He ne'er did good, nor ever would,
Had he lived as long again

Here lies the body of John Smith.
Had he lived till he got ashore,
he would have been buried here.

Here lies Dr. Trollope,
Who made these stones roll up;
He took a dose of jalop,
And God took his soul up.

John Macpherson
Was a remarkable person;
He stood six feet two
Without his shoe,
And he was slew
At Waterloo.

Here lies John Auricular,
Who in the ways of the Lord walked perpendicular.

Don't weep for me, my wife most dear,
But still remember I lie here,
Altho' cut down when little past my bloom,