"Who plucked my choicest flowers?" the gardener cried "The Master did," a well known voice replied. "'Tis well they are all his" the gardener said, And meekly bowed his reverential head. Beneath this stone in sound repose Lies William Rich of Lydeard Close. Eight wives he had yet none survive And likewise children eight times five, From whom an issue vast did pour Of great grandchildren five times four. Rich born, rich bred, yet Fate adverse His wealth and fortune did reverse. He lived and died immensely poor July the tenth aged ninety-four.

Ellington.

Here rest the remains of Alexander McKinstry.

A kind husband, tender parent, dutiful son, affectionate brother, faithful friend, generous master, and obliging neighbor. The house looks desolate and mourns, every door groans doleful as it turns. The pillars languish and each silent wall in grief laments the masters fall.

Joseph Horton, Pedlar

I lodged have in many a town And travelled many a year. Till age and death have brought me down To my last lodging here.

Falkirk, Eng.

Here lies the body of Robert Gordon, Mouth almighty and teeth according. Stranger tread lightly on this wonder, If he opens his mouth you are gone to thunder. Here under this sod and under these trees Is buried the body of Solomon Pease. But here in this hole lies only his pod His soul is shelled out and gone up to God. Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake, Who died for peace and quietness sake. His wife was constantly scolding and scoffing, So he sought repose in a twelve dollar coffin. At rest beneath this slab of stone, Lies stingy Jimmy Wyett. He died one morning just at ten And saved a dinner by it. Here lies the body of Sarah Sexton She was a wife that never vexed one. But I can't say as much for the one at the next stone. I Dionysius underneath this tomb Some sixty years of age have reached my doom. Ne'er having married, think it sad, And I wish my father never had. Underneath this marble hearse Lies the subject of all verse; Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother. Death ere thou hast slain another Wise and fair and good as she Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Kent.

Here lies two brothers by misfortune surrounded; One died of his wounds but the other was drownded.

Epitaph of Susan Blake

Written by Sir Thomas Moore at her urgent entreaty

Good Susan Blake in royal state Arrived at last at Heaven's gate.

(After an absence of years and having fallen out with her he added these two lines.)

"But Peter met her with a club And knocked her back to Beelzebub." Beneath this stone in hopes of Zion, Doeth lay the landlord of the Lion. His son keeps in the business still Resigned unto His heavenly will. John Palfryman who is buried here Was aged four and twenty years. And near this place his Mother lies Likewise his father when he dies.

Salisbury.

Farewell vain world I've had enough of thee, And value not what thou canst say of me; Thy smiles I court not, nor thy frowns I fear, All's one to me, my head lies quiet here; What faults thou'st seen in me take care to shun And look at home, there's something to be done Like a tender rose-tree was my spouse to me. Her offspring plucked too long deprived of life is she. Three went before, her life went with the sixth: I stay with the three our sorrows for to mix, Till Christ our only hope our joys doth fix.

Shetford Churchyard.

My grandfather was buried here, My cousin Jane and two uncles, dear. My father perished with inflammation of the eyes. My sister dropped dead in a nunnery. But the reason why I am here interred according to my thinking, Is owing to my good living and hard drinking, If therefore, good Christians, you wish to live long Don't drink to much wine, brandy, gin, or any thing strong. Beneath this monumental stone Lies half a ton of flesh and bone.

Shakspeare

Good friends for Jesus' sake forbear To stir the dust enclosed here. Blest be the man who spares these stones And cursed be he who moves my bones.

Nova Scotia.

Here lies old twenty five per cent. The more he had the more he lent. The more he had the more he craved, Great God, can his poor soul be saved?

Mt. Park Cemetery, Montreal.

Fred McKernan, Aged three years

Johnie wants to know where do you now stay Or with whom do you now play, Or where do you roam? For the little iron cot Your poor mother bought Still waits for you at home.

Folkstone.

Mrs David Stuart

For twenty years and eight I lived a maiden's life And five and thirty years I was a married wife. And in that space of time eight children I did bear, Four sons, four daughters who I ever loved most dear; Three of that number as the Scriptures run, Preached up the way to Heaven—and Hell to shun.

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Quaint Epitaphs

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Man

On three children