Curious Epitaphs - Various

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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 mankind A 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 hope that his clay will be re-moulded 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 of James Heywood, Who died May 4th, 1804, in the 55th year of his age.
The 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:—

In Memory of Samuel Bagshaw late of Har- ding-Booth who depar- ted this life June the 5th 1787 aged 71 years.
Beneath lie mouldering into Dust A Carpenter’s Remains. A man laborious, honest, just: his Character sustains. In seventy-one revolving Years He 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 Lot His Tree of Life assail’d His Grave was made upon this spot, and his last Branch he nail’d.

      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 get And 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.

      Our next is from Hessle, near Hull, and is said to have been inscribed on a tombstone placed over the remains of George Prissick, plumber and glazier:—

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 ’tis He’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 took His 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 together The souls of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl— You’ll find his relics in

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