From earth my body first arose, And now to earth again it goes: I ne’er desire to have it more, To tease me as it did before. Northumberland. NEWCASTLE. Here lies poor Wallace, The prince of good fellows, Clerk of Allhallows, And maker of bellows. He bellows did make to the day of his death, But he that made bellows could never make breath. * * * * * Here lies James, of tender affection, Here lies Isabell, of sweet complexion, Here lies Katheren, a pleasant child, Here lies Mary, of all most mild, Here lies Alexander, a babe most sweet, Here lies Jannet, as the Lord saw meet. ALNWICK. Here lieth Martin Elphinston, Who with his sword did cut in sun- der the daughter of Sir Harry Crispe, who did his daughter marry. She was fat and fulsome; But men will some- times eat bacon with their bean, And love the fat as well as lean. TYNEMOUTH. Wha lies here? Pate Watt, gin ye speer. Poor Pate! is that thou? Ay, by my soul, is ’t; But I’s dead now. ILDERTON. Under this stone lies Bobbity John, Who, when alive, to the world was a wonder; And would have been so yet, had not death in a fit, Cut his soul and his body asunder. Oxfordshire. WOLVERCOT. Fair Rosomond’s Tomb. Rosomond was buried at Godstow, a small island formed by the divided stream of the Isis, in the parish of Wolvercot, near Oxford. The following quaint epitaph was inscribed upon her tomb:— “Hic jacet in Thumba, Rosa Mundi, non Rosamunda, Non redolet sed olet, quæ redolere solet.” Imitated in English. “Here lies not Rose the chaste, but Rose the Fair, Her scents no more perfume, but taint the air.” Another translation. “The Rose of the World, a sad minx, Lies here;—let’s hope she repented: She doesn’t smell well now, but stinks,— She always _used_ to be scented.” Another. Here doth Fayre Rosamund like any peasant lie: She once was fragrant, but now smells unpleasantly. * * * * * On Meredith—an Organist. Here lies one blown out of breath, Who lived a merry life, and died a Merideth. * * * * * On a Letter Founder. Under this stone lies honest SYL, Who dy’d—though sore against his will; Yet in his fame, he shall survive,— Learning shall keep his name alive; For he the parent was of letters, And _founded_, to _confound_ his betters; Though what those letters should contain, Did never once concern his brain, Since, therefore, Reader, he is gone, Pray let him not be trod upon. * * * * *