Hark! what is that noise so mournful and slow, That sends on the winds the tickings of woe, In sound like the knell of a spirit that’s fled, And tells us, alas! a brother is dead? Yes, gone to the grave is he whom we lov’d And lifeless the form that manfully mov’d, The clods of the valley encompass his head, This tombstone reminds us our brother is dead. Dorsetshire. WIMBORNE. John Penny. Here honest John, who oft the turf had paced, And stopp’d his mother’s earth, in earth is placed, Nor all the skill of John himself could save, From being stopp’d within an earthly grave. A friend to sport, himself of sporting fame, John died, as he had lived, with heart of game— Nor did he yield until his mortal breath Was hard run down by that grim sportsman—Death. Reader, if cash thou art in want of any, Dig four feet deep, and thou wilt find—a Penny. EAST KNOWLE TURNPIKE. Since Man to Man is so unjust, That no Man knows what man to trust, My Roads are good, my Toll’s just, Pay to-day, to-morrow I’ll trust. WYKE. In memory of Eniah Harisdin. Also 4 sons who received the shock, Whereof 3 lies here, and one do not. What caused their parents for to weep, Because that one lies in the Deep. LILLINGTON. I poorly lived, I poorly died, And when I was buried nobody cried. * * * * * Not born, not dead, not christen’d, not begot, So! here she lies, that was, and that was not; She was born, baptized, is dead, and what is more, Was in her life, not honest, not a ----- Reader, behold a wonder rarely wrought, And whilst thou seem’st to read, thou readest _not_. DORCHESTER. Frank from his Betty snatch’d by Fate, Shows how uncertain is our state; He smiled at morn, at noon lay dead— Flung from a horse that kick’d his head, But tho’ he’s gone, from tears refrain, At judgment he’ll get up again. SILTON. Here lies a piece of Christ— a star in dust; A vein of gold—a china dish, that must— Be used in Heaven, when God shall feast the just. Durham. QUARRINGTON. To the memory of Thomas Bouchier, dated 1635. The petterne of conjugale love, the rare Mirroure of father’s care; Candid to all, his ev’ry action penn’d The copy of a frend, His last words best, a glorious eve (they say) Foretells a glorious day, Erected and composed with teares by his pensive sonne, James Bouchier. * * * * * Amongst the ludicrous and eccentric Epitaphs, perhaps one of the worst is that at Gateshead, on Robert Trollop, architect of the Exchange and Town Court of Newcastle:—