summary="table">

Out of the clay they got their daily bread,
Of clay were also made.
Returned to clay they now lie dead,
Where all that’s left must shortly go.
To live without him his wife she tried,
Found the task hard, fell sick, and died.
And now in peace their bodies lay,
Until the dead be called away,
And moulded into spiritual clay.

On a poor woman who kept an earthenware shop at Chester, the following epitaph was composed:—

Beneath this stone lies Catherine Gray, Changed to a lifeless lump of clay; By earth and clay she got her pelf, And now she’s turned to earth herself. Ye weeping friends, let me advise, Abate your tears and dry your eyes; For what avails a flood of tears? Who knows but in a course of years, In some tall pitcher or brown pan, She in her shop may be again.

Our next is from the churchyard of Aliscombe, Devonshire:—

In the old churchyard of Bullingham, on the gravestone of a builder, the following lines appear:—

This humble stone is o’er a builder’s bed, Tho’ raised on high by fame, low lies his head. His rule and compass are now locked up in store. Others may build, but he will build no more. His house of clay so frail, could hold no longer— May he in heaven be tenant of a stronger!

In Colton churchyard, Staffordshire, is a mason’s tombstone decorated with carving of square and compass, in relief, and bearing the following characteristic inscription:—

Sacred to the memory of James Heywood, Who died May 4th, 1804, in the 55th year of his age.

The corner-stone I often times have dress’d; In Christ, the corner-stone, I now find rest. Though by the Builder he rejected were, He is my God, my Rock, I build on here.

In the churchyard of Longnor, the following quaint epitaph is placed over the remains of a carpenter:—

In Memory of Samuel Bagshaw late of Har- ding-Booth who depar- ted this life June the 5th 1787 aged 71 years.

Beneath lie mouldering into Dust A Carpenter’s Remains. A man laborious, honest, just: his Character sustains. In seventy-one revolving Years He sow’d no Seeds of Strife; With Ax and Saw, Line, Rule and Square, employed his careful life. But Death who view’d his peaceful Lot His Tree of Life assail’d His Grave was made upon this spot, and his last Branch he nail’d.

Here are some witty lines on a carpenter named John Spong, who died 1739, and is buried in Ockham churchyard:—

Who many a sturdy oak has laid along, Fell’d by Death’s surer hatchet, here lies John Spong. Post oft he made, yet ne’er a place could get And lived by railing, tho’ he was no wit. Old saws he had, although no antiquarian; And stiles corrected, yet was no grammarian. Long lived he Ockham’s favourite architect, And lasting as his fame a tomb t’ erect, In vain we seek an artist such as he, Whose pales and piles were for eternity.

Our next is from Hessle, near Hull, and is said to have been inscribed on a tombstone placed over the remains of George Prissick, plumber and glazier:—

Adieu, my friend, my thread of life is spun; The diamond will not cut, the solder will not run; My body’s turned to ashes, my grief and troubles past, I’ve left no one to worldly care—and I shall rise at last.

On a dyer, from the church of St. Nicholas, Yarmouth, we have as follows:—

Here lies a man who first did dye, When he was twenty-four, And yet he lived to reach the age, Of hoary hairs, fourscore. But now he’s gone, and certain ’tis He’ll not dye any more.

In Sleaford churchyard, on Henry Fox, a weaver, the following lines are inscribed:—

Of tender thread this mortal web is made, The woof and warp and colours early fade; When power divine awakes the sleeping dust, He gives immortal garments to the just.

Our next epitaph, from Weston, is placed over the remains of a useful member of society in his time:—

Here lies entomb’d within this vault so dark, A tailor, cloth-drawer, soldier, and parish clerk; Death snatch’d him hence, and also from him took His needle, thimble, sword, and prayer-book. He could not work, nor fight,—what then? He left the world, and faintly cried, “Amen!”

On an Oxford bellows-maker, the following lines were written:—

Here lyeth John Cruker, a maker of bellowes, His craftes-master and King of good fellowes; Yet when he came to the hour of his death, He that made bellowes, could not make breath.

The next epitaph, on Joseph Blakett, poet and shoemaker of Seaham, is said to be from Byron’s pen:—

Stranger! behold interr’d 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 work was neat, and often found Well-stitched and with morocco bound. Tread lightly—where the bard is laid We 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 Phœbus to the last. Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only leather and prunella? For character—he did not lack it, And if he did—’twere shame to Black it!

The following lines are on a