Jesse Quantrill, MillerThe toll taken, the grist drest:Here the bran, the flour with Christ.
Abel Paternoster, GardenerHere's a man who tossed and turnedBeds of clay for sixty years.Now he's fast asleep in one,Don't disturb him with your tears:Rest which most men merely won,Abel Paternoster earned.
Rosemary Young (1729-1747)Whitest of white once, ruddiest of red,Here rests my fair one in her final bed.Though snatch'd from earth in beauty's early bloom,Her memory flowers even from the tombAnd warms that breast which would a garland wearBut feels too much to bear its fragrance near.
Mary GirlingEighty years old and late November,Hurry! I shiver --Colder than I care to remember:Throw the quilt over.
Matthew Wealthy (1848-1882) Matthew Wealthy (1873-1882)Since smallpox took all my wealthI am forever beside myself.
Alfred Backus, Cesspit DiggerBackus never took a bath.When his starched and spotless neighborsSpurned the man but spared his labours,"Septic Alf" bided their wrath.
Now they're all that dirty, heBids them welcome him with loveAs the prophet and founder ofTheir sod-roofed community.
Reverend Philip WainwrightServed His LordAnd the MembersOf This ParishTo the UtmostOf His CapacityFor Thirty-Seven Years,Three Months, and Nineteen Days.
A Service Deemed SufficientBy the Lord, as WitnessHis Calling him HomeTo His Bosom;But Not by the MembersOf This Parish, as WitnessTheir Leaving his WidowTo Bear the Entire BurdenOf This Memorial.
Sarah Pearl BrimblecombeHer only rouge was blush. She shunned the brush,Abjured pastels and paint's Alluring taints,And cherished black and white Until the nightShe put her charcoals by, No longer shy,And gave up drawing breath To limn death.
Infant TravisEre we named himDeath had claimed him.We would be givingNames to the living,So sleep, little sonWithout one.
Harry Kemp, Shoemaker Long life passedWhere hammer and nailTold bickering tale.God hushed that soundAnd Harry foundHis toil ended,His soul mended --Peace at last.
