Here lies John Taggart, of honest fame, Of stature low, and a leg lame; Content he was with portion small, Kept a shop in Wigtown, and that’s all.
A servant maid was sent by her mistress to Ben Jonson for an epitaph on her departed husband. She could only afford to pay half-a-guinea, which Ben refused, saying he never wrote one for less than double that sum; but recollecting he was going to dine that day at a tavern, he ran down stairs and called her back. “What was your master’s name?”—“Jonathan Fiddle, sir.” “When did he die?”—“June the 22nd, sir.” Ben took a small piece of paper, and wrote with his pencil, while standing on the stairs, the following:—
On the twenty-second of June, Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune.
Who kept the Wheatsheaf, at Bedford, and had twenty- four children by his first wife, and eight by his second. Shadrach lies here; who made both sexes happy, The women with love toys, and the men with nappy.
I _bowled_, I _struck_, I _caught_, I _stopt_, Sure life’s a game of cricket; I _block’d_ with care, with caution popp’d, Yet Death has hit my _wicket_.
A zealous locksmith died of late, And did arrive at heaven gate; He stood without and would not knock, Because he meant to pick the lock.
On John Cole, Who died suddenly, while at dinner.
Here lies Johnny Cole, Who died, on my soul, After eating a plentiful dinner. While chewing his crust, He was turned into dust, With his crimes undigested—poor sinner!
Death levels all, both high and low, Without regard to stations; Yet why complain, If we are slain? For here lies one, at least, to show, He kills his own relations.
“The following reference to one departed Mr. Strange, of the legal profession, is rather complimentary; and I have only to hope that the fact of the case is as stated, and that the writer was not led away by the obvious opportunity of making a point, to exaggerate the virtues of the deceased. It looks a little suspicious.” (_Dickens_).
“Here lies an honest lawyer, And that is Strange.”
“Dr. I. Letsome wrote the following epitaph for his own tombstone; but it is not likely that he allowed his friends, or at least his patients, to read it until he was under the turf, or out of practice:”—
“When people’s ill, they comes to I, I physics, bleeds, and sweats ’em; Sometimes they live, sometimes they die; What’s that to I? I. Letsome.” (_lets ’em_.)