'Stranger, behold interred together
The souls of learning and of leather
Poor Joe is gone, but left his awl
You'll find his relics in a stall
His works were neat and often found
Well -stitched and with morocco bound
Tread lightly - where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made
Yet he is happy in his hole
With verse immortal as his sole
But still to business he held fast
And stuck to Phoebus to the last
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and Prunella
For character he did not lack
And if he did twere shame to black it'

These lines are from Ohio in the USA.
'Under this sod
And under these trees
Lieth the body of Solomon Pease
He's not in this hole
But only his pod
He shelled out his soul
And went up to God'

The gravesteone of a Mr Merideth at Oxford reads

'Here lies one
Blown out of breath
Who lived a merry life
And died a Merideth'

Here's one from Plainsfield, Vermont, USA.

'This blooming youth in health most fair
To his uncle's mill-pond did repair
Undressed himself and so plunged in
But never did come out again'

A send off at Portsmouth is for a carpenter.
'Here lies Jemmy Little, a carpenter industrious
A very good-natured man, but somewhat blusterous
When that his little wife his authority withstood
He took a little stick and he banged her as he would
His wife, now left alone, her loss does so deplore
She wishes Jemmy back to bang her a little more
For now he's dead and gone this fault appears so small
A little thing would make her think it was no fault at all'

Here's a couple of rather uncomplimentary epitaphs from Scotland.

'This stone was raised to Sarah Ford
Not Sarah's virtues to record
For they're well known by all the town
No, Lord, it was raised to keep her down'

'Here lies my wife
A sad slattern and shrew
If I said I regretted it
I should lie too'
This epitaph is from Seattle, Washington, USA, and has a rather unpleasant flavour.

'Beneath this stone our baby lies
It neither cries nor hollers
It lived but one and twenty days
And cost us ninety dollars'

Let me round off this week with a rather unusual passing of a soldier - a grenadier of the North Regiment of the Hampshire Militia.
Thomas Thetcher died of a violent fever caught from drinking small beer, (when hot) on the 12th May, 1764, aged 26. His comrades, at their own expense, put up a tombstone for him with these somewhat confusing words.

'Here sleeps in peace a Hampshire Grenadier
Who caught his death by drinking cold small beer
Soldiers, be wise from his untimely fall
And when you're hot drink strong or none at all'

Next week in Part 18 - Bone to Bones