Here lieth Robin Masters—Faith ’twas hard To take away our honest Robin’s breath; Yet surely Robin was full well prepared, Robin was always looking out for death.
Subdued by death, here death’s great herald lies, And adds a trophy to his victories; Yet sure he was prepared, who, while he’d breath, Made it his business to look for death.
Death at a cobler’s door oft made a stand, And always found him on the mending hand; At last came Death, in very dirty weather, And ripp’d the sole from off the upper leather. Death put a trick upon him, and what was’t? The cobler called for’s awl, Death brought his last.
Beneath yon humble clod, at rest Lies Andrew, who, if not the best, Was not the very worst man; A little rakish, apt to roam; But not so now, he’s quite at home, For Andrew was a _Dustman_.
Here lies the body of John Cole, His master loved him like his soul; He could rake hay—none could rake faster, Except that raking dog, his master.
So, so, Master Langford, the hammer of Death Hath knock’d out your brains, and deprived you of breath; ’Tis but tit for tat, he who puts up the town, By Devil or Death must at last be knock’d down.
Jerusalem’s curse was not fulfilled in me, For here a stone upon a Stone you see.
Here lies Thomas Day, Lately removed from over the way.
Epitaph by Burns. (On a man choked by a piece of bread!)
Here I lie, killed by a crumb, That wouldn’t go down, nor wouldn’t up come.
Here in this Chancel do I lye, Known by the name of John Treffry. Being born & made for to die; So must thou, friend, as well as I. Therefore good works be sure to try, But chiefly love & Charity; And still on them with faith rely, To be happy eternally.
This was put up during his life, who was a whimsical man. He had his grave dug, & lay down and swore in it, to show the sexton a novelty, _i.e._, a man swearing in his grave.
By Death’s impartial scythe was mown Poor Hatt—he lies beneath this stone; On him misfortune oft did frown, Yet Hatt ne’er wanted for a crown; When many years of constant wear Had made his beaver somewhat bare, Death saw, and pitying his mishap, Has given him here a good long nap.
Here I, Thomas Wharton, do lie, With Lucifer under my head, And Nelly my wife hard bye, And Nancy as cold as lead.