Here lies the bones of David Jones, Laid both dead and dumb.

He read a law and plead a cause But died from drinking rum.

Over the grave of a brave engineer.

Until the brakes are turned on time, Life's throttle-valve shut down, He works to pilot in the crew That wears the martyr's crown.

On schedule time, on upper grade Along the homeward section, He lands his train in G.o.d's roundhouse The morn of resurrection.

His time is full, no wages docked, His name on G.o.d's pay roll, And transportation through to Heaven A free pa.s.s for his soul.

Elizabeth Scott lies buried here.

She was born Nov 20th 1785, according to the best of her recollection.

TENNESSEE.

She lived a life of virtue and died of the cholera morbus, caused by eating green fruit in hope of a blessed immortality.

Reader, go thou and do likewise.

Sacred to the memory of Henry Harris who died from a kick by a colt in his bowells.

Peacable and quiet, a friend to his father and mother, respected by all who knew him--gone to the world where horses don't kick, where sorrow and weeping are no more.

Here lies my twins as dead as nits One died of fever the other of fits.

Some have children others none, Here lies the mother of twenty one.

YAZOO CITY.

Here lie two grandsons of John Hanc.o.c.k, first signer of the Declaration of Independence.

(Their names are respectively Geo. M.

and John H. Hanc.o.c.k) and their eminence hangs on their having had a grandfather.

UNLOCATED.

Beneath this stone, a lump of clay, Lies Arabella Young, Who on the twenty first of May Began to hold her tongue.

Ebenezer Dockwood aged forty seven, A miser and a hypocrite and never went to Heaven.

Within this grave do lie.

Back to back my wife and I.

When the last trump the air shall fill, If she gets up I'll just lie still.

Mammy and I together lived, Just three years and a half.

She went first, I followed next, The cow before the calf.

A man had cremated four wives, and the ashes, kept in four urns, being overturned and fallen together, were buried at last and had this droll inscription:

Stranger pause and shed a tear, For Mary Jane lies buried here.

Mingled in a most surprising manner With Susan, Marie and portions of Hannah.

Sacred to the memory Of Miss Martha Grimm.

She was so very spare within, She burst the outward sh.e.l.l of sin And hatched herself a cherubim.

No doctor ever physicked me, Was never near my side.

But when fever came I thought of the name, And that was enough--I died.

This is to the memory of Ellen Hill, A woman who would always have her will.

She snubbed her husband but she made good bread Yet on the whole he's rather glad she's dead.

She whipped her children and she drank her gin, Whipped virtue out and whipped the devil in.

May all such women go to some great fold Where they through all eternity may scold.

Sacred to the memory of William Skaradon who came to his death by being shot with a Colts revolver, one of the old kind bra.s.s mounted and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Timothy Egan

He heard the angels calling him, From the celestial sh.o.r.e.

He flopped his wings and away he flew To make one angel more.

Here lies the body of Mary Ford We hope her soul is with the Lord.

But if for tophet she's changed this life, Better be there than J. Ford's wife.

A zealous locksmith died of late, And did not enter Heaven's gate.

But stood without and would not knock Because he meant to pick the lock.

Ashes to ashes dust to dust, Here lies George Emery I trust.