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. * * * * * Mr. Langford, Auctioneer. 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. * * * * * On a man named Stone. Jerusalem’s curse was not fulfilled in me, For here a stone upon a Stone you see. * * * * * On Thomas Day. 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. * * * * * On John Treffry, Esq. 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. * * * * * On -- Hatt. 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. O, how can I speak without dread Who could my sad fortune abide? With one devil under my head, And another laid close on each side. * * * * * On William Jones, a Bone Collector Here lie the bones of William Jones, Who when alive collected bones, But Death, that grisly bony spectre, That most amazing bone collector, Has boned poor Jones so snug and tidy, That here he lies in bonâ fide. * * * * *