Here, I pray, traveller, coming by, stop a little while, and ponder my words in your heart, that from my image you may recognize your own destiny: O how appearance is changed — as mine, so also yours. What you now are, I once was, famous in the world, traveller; and what I now am, you too shall one day be. I pursued the delights of the world in vain love; now I am ash and dust, and food for worms. Therefore remember rather to care for the soul than for the flesh, since this remains, but that perishes. Why do you prepare estates for yourself? In how small a cave you see this rest holds me here: so shall yours also become small. Why do you long to clothe your body in Tyrian purple, which soon the hungry worm will devour into dust? As flowers perish when the menacing wind comes, so likewise, O flesh, all your glory perishes.
Repay me my turn, reader, I beg, for this song, and say: 'Grant pardon, O Christ, to your servant.' I beseech you, let no hand violate the holy rights of the tomb, until the angelic trumpet shall sound from the citadel on high: 'You who lie in the grave, rise up from the dust of the earth; the great Judge is at hand for countless thousands.' Alcuin was my name, ever loving wisdom; for which pour out prayers in your mind, you who read this inscription. Here rests the lord Alcuin, abbot of blessed memory, who died in peace on the fourteenth day before the Kalends of June. When you read this, O all of you, pray for him and say, 'May the Lord grant him eternal rest.' Amen.