Anticipated Epitaph on Abraham Cann (1827)

This satirical epitaph commemorates Abraham Cann, a celebrated wrestler from Devon, through the conceit of his ultimate defeat by Death personified. Originally published in the Weekly Dispatch, the poem employs mock-heroic conventions to honour Cann’s prowess whilst acknowledging mortality’s inevitability.
The verse chronicles Cann’s wrestling dominance, noting his victories over formidable opponents including “giant Jordan,” Gafney (styled “Erin’s joy”), and the evasive Polkinghorn. The poet emphasises Cann’s physical attributes—his “ample chest,” “shoulders broadly spread,” and “rocky tread”—alongside his paradoxical character: “In deeds a hero, but in speech a child.” This juxtaposition portrays him as physically imposing yet modest in demeanour.
The climactic encounter pits Cann against Death, “the King of Terrors,” who observes the wrestler’s undefeated record and questions whether he faces a true rival. In their match, Death employs wrestling technique—gaining “the forelock in a crack”—to lay “poor Abraham flat upon his back,” thus claiming the ultimate victory that no mortal strength can prevent.
The poem functions as both genuine tribute and memento mori, celebrating Cann’s athletic achievements whilst deploying the traditional epitaphic reminder that death levels all distinctions. The wrestling terminology and vivid physical descriptions suggest this was written for a contemporary audience familiar with Cann’s reputation in West Country sporting circles during the early nineteenth century.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Cann eventually died in 1864, almost 40 years after this was written, and tragically never received a real epitaph for his life. There was no lengthy commentary on his life, or his achievements in the ring. Cann sadly outlived all those he loved. As a result, the final days of his life were spent in obscurity, as he mourned the passing of all his children and his wife.

ANTICIPATED EPITAPH ON ABRAHAM CANN.
(From the Weekly Dispatch.)
“Like other tyrants, death delights to smite,
What smilest, most proclaims the pride of pow’r,
And arbitary nod.”—YOUNG.
COLD meat for worms—the common lot of man,
Here lies Devonia’s pride, brave Abraham Cann.
Death,—unremitting in his rav’nous toil,
And, mournful thought, whom none of us can foil,—
A while beheld him, with keen envious eyes
Each wrestler throw and bear off every prize.
Saw giant Jordan skulking from the field,
And Gafney, “Erin’s joy,” reluctant yield,
A down whose shins the gory stream distill’d,
Stain’d all his worsteds, and his kicksees fill’d.
While Ab, his honours fairly won and worn,
Silenc’d, with challenge fair, evasive Polkinghorn.
The King of Terrors mark’d Cann’s manly grace;
His eye of lightning; pale and placid face;
His ample chest; his shoulders broadly spread—
The planted firmness of his rocky tread.
His mood retiring and his accents mild—
In deeds a hero, but in speech a child.
“Lo! before Cann, each champion breathless lies,
Have I a rival, then?” Old Drybones cries.
They met—but Death no coward fear observes,
No terror shakes the champion’s iron nerves,
They hitch’d—Death gain’d the forelock in a crack,
And laid poor Abraham flat upon his back.
A DEVONIAN​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​