Here lies the swift racer; so fam’d for his running, In spite of his boasting, his swiftness and cunning, In leaping o’er hedges, and skipping o’er fields, Death soon overtook him, and tript up his heels. GAWSWORTH. Reader, take notice, That on ye 12 Feby 1760, Tho: Corbishley, A brave veteran Dragoon Here went into his quarters. But remember that when The trumpet calls He’ll out and march again. Cornwall. TRURO. A Dyer born, a dyer bred, Lies numbered here among the dead; Dyers, like mortals doomed to die, Alike fit food for worms supply. Josephus Dyer was his name, By dyeing he acquired fame; ’Twas in his forty-second year, His neighbours kind did him inter. Josephus Dyer, his first son, Doth also lie beneath this stone; So likewise doth his second boy, Who was his parents’ hope and joy. His handiwork did all admire, For never was a better dyer. Both youths were in their fairest prime, Ripe fruitage of a healthful clime; But nought can check Death’s lawless aim, Whosoever life he choose to claim; It was God’s edict from the throne, “My will upon earth shall be done.” Then did the active mother’s skill The vacancy with credit fill, Till she grew old, and weak, and blind, And this last wish dwelt on her mind— That she, when dead, should buried be With her loved spouse and family, At last Death’s arm her strength defied; Thus all the dyeing Dyers died. “A prolonged medical statement of the disease of which the departed may chance to have died, is extremely popular. At Acton, in Cornwall, there is this particular account of how one Mr. Morton came by his end:— “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.” * * * * * “Here is what a Cornish gentleman finds it in his heart to inscribe upon his dear departed:— “My wife is dead, and here she lies, No man laughs and no man cries, Where she’s gone, or how she fares, Nobody knows and nobody cares.” PENRYN. Here lies William Smith, And what is somewhat rarish, He was born, bred, and Hanged in this parish. CALSTOCK. Susanna Jones, 1812. All you that read those lines Would stop awhile and think, That I am in eternity, And you are on the brink. * * * * * Mary Matthews, 1846.