A gravestone in Horncastle churchyard, Lincolnshire, has this epitaph :

My helm was gone,

My sails were rent,

My mast went by the board,

My hull it struck upon a rock,
Receive my soul, O Lord!

On a sailor's gravestone in the burial-ground at Hamilton, we are told :

The seas he ploughed for twenty years,
Without the smallest dread or fears:

And all that time was never known

To strike upon a bank or stone.

Epitaphs on Musicians and Actors.

A

FEW epitaphs relating to music and the drama now claim our attention. Our first example is to be found in the cathedral at Norwich :

Here WILLIAM INGLOTT, organist, doth rest,
Whose art in musick this Cathedral blest ;

For descant most, for voluntary all,

He past on organ, song, and virginall.
He left this life at age of sixty-seven,

And now 'mongst angels all sings St. in Heaven;
His fame flies far, his name shall never die,
See, art and age here crown his memorie.
Non digitis, Inglotte, tuis terrestria tangis,
Tangis nunc digitis organa celsa poli.
Anno Dom. 1621.

Buried the last day

of December, 1621.

This erected the 15th day of June, 1622.

In Wakefield Parish Church a tablet bears an

inscription as follows:

In memory of

HENRY CLEMETSHAW, upwards of fifty years organist

of this church, who died

May 7, 1821, aged 68 years.

Now, like an organ, robb'd of pipes and breath,

Its keys and stops are useless made by death,

Tho' mute and motionless in ruins laid;

Yet when re-built, by more than mortal aid,

This instrument, new voiced, and tuned, shall raise,
To God, its builder, hymns of endless praise.

We copy the following from a monument in Holy Trinity Church, Hull :

In memory of

GEORGE LAMBERT,

late Organist of this Church,
which office he held upwards of 40 years,

performing its duties with ability
and assiduity rarely exceeded,
affording delight to the lovers
of Sacred Harmony,

This Tablet is erected

by his Musical and private Friends,
aided by the brothers of the Humber

and Minerva Lodges of Free Masons of this Town
(being a member of the latter Lodge),

That they might place on record
the high sense they entertained

of his personal and professional merit.
He died Feb. 19th, 1838, aged 70 years,
And his Remains were interred at the
Parish Church of St. John in Beverley.

Tho' like an Organ now in ruins laid,
Its stops disorder'd, and its frame decay'd,
This instrument ere long new tun'd shall raise
To God, its Builder, notes of endless praise.

From a churchyard in Wales we obtain the following curious epitaph on an organ blower :

Under this stone lies MEREdith Morgan,

Who blew the bellows of our church organ.
Tobacco he hated, to smoke most unwilling,

Yet never so pleased as when pipes he was filling.
No reflection on him for rude speech could be cast,
Though he gave our old organ many a blast!

No puffer was he, though a capital blower;

He could blow double G., and now lies a note lower.

Our next epitaph records the death of a fiddler, who appears to have been so much attached to his wife that upon the day of her death he, too, yielded to the grim tyrant. Of this pair, buried in Flixton churchyard, it may be truly said: "In life united, and in death not parted." The inscription is as follows:

To the Memory of JOHN BOOTH, of Flixton, who died 16th March, 1778, aged 43 years; on the same day and within a few hours of the death of his wife HANNAH, who was buried with him in the same grave, leaving seven children behind them.

Reader, have patience, for a Moment Stay,

Nor grudge the Tribute of a friendly tear,
For John, who once made all our Village gay,
Has taken up his Clay-cold Lodging here.

Suspended now his fiddle lies asleep,

That once with Musick us'd to charm the Ear.

Not for his Hannah long reserv'd to weep,
John yields to Fate with his companion dear.

So tenderly he loved his dearer part,

His Fondness could not bear a stay behind;

And Death through Kindness seem'd to throw the dart
To ease his sorrow, as he knew his mind.
In cheerful Labours all their Time they spent,

Their happy Lives in Length of Days acquir'd;
But Hand in Hand to Nature's God they went,
And just lay down to sleep when they were tir'd.
The Relicks of this faithful, honest Pair

One little Space of Mother Earth contains.
Let Earth protect them with a Mother's Care,
And Constant Verdure grace her for her pains.

The Pledges of their tender love remain,

For seven fine children bless'd their nuptial State.
Behold them, neighbours! nor behold in vain,

But heal their Sorrows and their lost Estate.

In the Old Cemetery, Newport, Monmouthshire, on a Scotch piper, the following appears :—

To the memory of Mr. JOHN MACBETH late piper to His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, and a native of the Highlands of Scotland:

Died April 24th, 1852, Aged 46 years.
Far from his native land, beneath this stone,
Lies JOHN MACBETH, in prime of manhood gone;
A kinder husband never yet did breathe,

A firmer friend ne'er trod on Albyn's heath;
His selfish aims were all in heart and hand,

To be an honour to his native land,

As real Scotchmen wish to fall or stand.

A handsome Gael he was, of splendid form,
Fit for a siege, or for the Northern Storm.

Sir Walter Scott remarked at Inverness,

"How well becomes Macbeth the Highland dress!"