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Eulogy Examples: Short and Longer Samples to Make Your Own

Funerals · 16 min read · First published 2026 · Updated November 2026

A microphone resting on a closed book
Photo by Apo Stock on Unsplash

Sometimes the hardest part of a eulogy is seeing what one looks like. Below are original sample eulogies for a mother, a father, a grandparent, a spouse, a friend and a much-loved relative with a sense of humor, plus a short tribute for a pet. The names and details are made up. Change what doesn't fit and fill in your own stories.

Key points

  • A eulogy does not need to be long. Two minutes is a full, loving tribute, and five minutes is plenty.
  • At an everyday speaking pace, a 2-minute eulogy is roughly 250 to 300 words and a 4-minute one is roughly 500 to 600.
  • The best eulogies are made of small, true details: a phrase they always said, a smell in their kitchen, one story that sounds like them.
  • Use these samples as a shape, not a script. Your own words will always mean more than ours.

Not sure where to start? If you'd rather write by hand, the eulogy workbook walks you through it one page at a time.

Looking for one person in particular? See Eulogy for Mom, Eulogy for Dad and Eulogy for a Grandmother. Need something brief? Short Eulogy Examples has ten one- to two-minute samples.

How to use these samples

Each sample follows the same simple path: who they were, one or two stories that show it, and what they leave behind. You can follow that path with your own material.

Read a sample out loud first. Notice where it pauses, and where you'd say it differently. Then swap in your own names, memories and little phrases. If a line doesn't sound like something you would say at the kitchen table, change it.

For a step-by-step way to gather your stories and organize them, see Tips for Writing a Eulogy. If you're stuck, Why Is a Eulogy So Difficult to Write? may help you feel less alone.

A short eulogy for a mother (about 2 minutes)

Good morning. For those who don't know me, I'm Anna, Ruth's oldest daughter.

My mother believed that most problems could be solved with a casserole, a phone call, or a long walk, and she was usually right. If you were sick, she showed up with soup. If you were sad, she asked how you were, and then she waited, really waited, for the answer.

She worked at the school office for twenty-six years. Many of you know her from the front desk, where she could tell a kid who was truly sick from a kid who had a math test. She never got it wrong. She kept a jar of peppermints in her drawer for anyone who needed one, and a lot of children needed one.

When I was nine, I told her I didn't want to go on stage in the school play. She didn't tell me to be brave. She sat on the end of my bed and said, "You can be scared and do it anyway." I have heard her voice say that in every hard moment of my life since.

My mother was not perfect, and she would be the first to tell you so. But she loved us fiercely, and she showed it in small ways, every single day. She kept the porch light on. She remembered every birthday. She never let anyone leave her house hungry.

Mom, thank you for the peppermints, the casseroles and the porch light. We will keep it on for you. We love you.

A longer eulogy for a father (about 3 to 4 minutes)

Thank you all for being here. I'm Michael, Walt's son. I'd like to tell you a little about my dad, and I promise to keep it shorter than one of his fishing stories, which is a very low bar.

My father was a mechanic, and for forty years he fixed things. Cars, mostly, but also lawnmowers, bicycles, the neighbor's porch swing, and once a friend's broken heart, although he'd deny that last one. He believed everything could be repaired if you were patient and had the right wrench. He kept a coffee can full of random bolts in the garage, in case "somebody needs one someday." Somebody always did.

Dad didn't say "I love you" very often. He wasn't raised that way. But he said it in other ways. He said it when he got up at five in the morning to drive me to a swim meet two towns over. He said it when he left a full tank of gas in my car without a word, every time I came home from college. He said it when he sat on the back steps with me at midnight after my first heartbreak, saying nothing at all, and it was exactly the right thing to say.

He taught me to drive in an empty church parking lot on Sunday afternoons. He had a very calm voice for a man whose son was aiming a station wagon at a flagpole. "Easy," he said. "Look where you want to go, not at what you're afraid to hit." I've thought about that many times since, and not only when I'm driving.

My father also loved to fish, although I'm not sure he loved catching things. I think he loved the quiet. He'd bring a thermos of bad coffee and a bag of butterscotch candies, and he'd sit on the dock for hours, watching the water. When I was little I thought it was boring. When I was a teenager I thought it was a waste of a Saturday. Now I think it was the closest he ever came to prayer, and I wish I could sit next to him one more time.

In the last year, Dad got quieter, and his hands weren't as steady. But he never complained. When I asked him if he was scared, he thought about it and said, "Not much. I've had a good life, and I've got good people." And then he asked if I'd brought the butterscotch.

Dad, you were the steadiest person I knew. You showed us that love doesn't have to be loud to be strong. We'll keep a coffee can of bolts in the garage, and a butterscotch in our pockets, and we'll look where we want to go.

Rest easy. We love you.

A short eulogy for a grandparent (about 2 minutes)

Hello, everyone. I'm Sophie, and June was my Nana.

I have been trying to think of how to describe my grandmother, and the word I keep coming back to is warm. Her house was warm. Her hugs were warm. Even her opinions were warm, though she had plenty of them.

Nana grew up on a farm, and she never lost the habit of feeding a crowd. Sunday dinner at her house meant twelve people around a table built for eight, with cousins on the stairs. She made her famous apple cake, and she never wrote the recipe down. She said you just have to "know when it looks right." I've tried to make it three times. It never looks right, so I think the secret was her.

She taught me to play cards, and she did not let me win. "You won't learn anything if I do," she said, laughing, as she took all my pennies. She taught me to hem a skirt, to write thank-you notes, and to always say hello to the person at the checkout counter, because "everybody's had a long day."

In the last few years, she liked to tell me about the dances she went to as a girl. Her eyes would light up and she'd hum the songs. I can't hear a big band now without seeing her twirling in the kitchen in her slippers.

Nana, thank you for the cake, the cards, and the way you made every one of us feel like your favorite. We'll save you a seat at the table. We love you.

A longer eulogy for a spouse or partner (about 3 to 4 minutes)

This one is written for a speaker who has lost a husband or wife. Change the pronouns and details to fit your own marriage.

Thank you to everyone who has come today. Some of you have traveled a long way, and it means the world to me.

I met Daniel in a laundromat. I had a bag of laundry and a very bad attitude, and he was reading a paperback with a dog-eared cover and holding a sock he'd lost. He looked up, handed me the sock, and said, "I think this is yours." It wasn't mine. We both knew that. We've been laughing about it for thirty-one years.

If I had to describe my husband in one sentence, I would say he made things better by being in the room. Not by fixing everything, although he tried. Just by being there, calm and curious, the way a good light makes a room feel safe. He listened with his whole face. He asked questions and he remembered the answers. When our daughter was learning to ride a bike, he ran behind her for an entire summer, pretending to hold on long after he'd let go, so she'd believe she could do it. She did.

He was a teacher for most of his life, and many of you here were his students. I've heard so many of your stories this week, and every one of them sounded just like him. The boy who couldn't read, until Daniel stayed after school with him, day after day, and the letters finally made sense. The girl who wanted to give up on college, until he wrote her a letter she still keeps. He said it wasn't the facts he cared about teaching. It was helping people believe they were capable of more than they thought.

Daniel loved terribly corny jokes. He kept a notebook of them. He told them at dinner parties, at family reunions, and once, memorably, to a very confused police officer. I will tell you that I rolled my eyes at all of them, and I laughed at every one.

We had a good marriage, and it wasn't an easy one every day. We had hard years, and we had illness and money worries and plenty of ordinary arguments about the dishwasher. But we always came back to the table. He used to say, "We're on the same team, even when we're mad." That's a gift I'll carry for the rest of my life.

In the last months, when things got hard, he asked me not to be sad in a way that made him feel worse. He wanted us to keep telling stories and keep laughing. So I'll do my best. I'll keep the notebook. I'll tell the jokes badly. And every time I find a lost sock, I'll think of you.

Daniel, thank you for finding me in a laundromat. Thank you for thirty-one years. I'll love you all my life.

A short eulogy for a friend (about 2 minutes)

Hi, everyone. I'm Jess, and Marcus was my best friend for twenty years.

I don't know how to talk about Marcus in the past tense, so please forgive me if I slip. He's the only person I've ever known who could walk into a room of strangers and walk out with seven new friends and a plant someone insisted he take home.

Marcus had a special talent for noticing. He noticed when you were quiet. He noticed when you'd gotten a haircut, and he noticed when you'd had a bad day, even if you said you hadn't. He would text, "Coffee? No pressure." And he would turn up with two cups, whether or not you said yes.

When my mother died, he came to the house at eight in the morning and just started doing dishes. He didn't say very much. He did every dish in the sink, then dried them, then put them away in the wrong cupboards. I found them for months afterward, and every time I found a plate in the wrong place, I smiled.

I am a better person for having been Marcus's friend. I'm more patient, more generous and a bit more silly. He used to say that friendship is mostly showing up. He showed up, every time.

Marcus, I'm going to show up for the people you loved. I'll keep the coffee on and the dishes in the wrong cupboards. Thank you for being my friend. I miss you already.

A longer, light-hearted eulogy (about 3 to 4 minutes)

For someone whose family and friends would want the room to laugh. Humor works best when it is kind and the room knows the person. Keep it kind and tell stories the person would have enjoyed hearing.

Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Tom, and I had the great honor of being Gus's nephew. I use the word "honor" carefully, because Uncle Gus once described the word as "something people say right before they ask you to carry a couch."

If you knew my uncle, you know he did not believe in doing anything quietly. He told stories at full volume. He sang in the car, to the radio, and sometimes to other drivers. He had exactly four opinions on any given subject, and he'd share all of them, usually in the wrong order. He wore a hat that I'm fairly sure was older than I am, and he refused to replace it, even after my aunt, with great love, tried to lose it three times. It always found its way back.

He was a terrible fisherman. I say that with respect. In forty years, Gus caught, by my family's count, six fish. He talked about each one as though it were a whale. The legendary Lake Tahoe trout grew from nine inches to two feet by the third telling. By the time I was twelve, I was pretty sure that trout had been bigger than the boat.

But he was also the person who showed up. When my car broke down in the middle of nowhere at midnight, he drove ninety miles in his pajamas, with the hat on, and no complaint. When my cousin was in the hospital, he sat in the waiting room for three days telling the nurses jokes until they started bringing him coffee just to hear the end of them. He could make a stranger feel like family in about four minutes.

He liked to say, "If you can't laugh at a funeral, you're not doing it right." So I'd like to ask everyone to do something for him today. Think of your best Gus story, the one you tell at parties, and tell it to someone near you after the service. Tell it loud, and tell it a little bigger than it was. That's how he would have wanted it.

Uncle Gus, you were too much of a character for the world to hold on to for long. We'll miss you terribly, we'll tell the trout story forever, and the trout will keep getting bigger.

Thank you. Please go and find a snack.

A short tribute for a pet (about 1 minute)

For a small gathering at home, a backyard burial or a memorial for a family pet. A pet's life deserves to be remembered out loud, and many families find it helps the children too.

We're here today to say goodbye to Biscuit.

Biscuit came into our lives as a scruffy puppy who chewed through two pairs of shoes in a single week. For fourteen years she waited at the window for us to come home. She knew the sound of our car from three blocks away, and she met us at the door every time like we'd been gone for a year.

She loved tennis balls, the back of the couch, and the one sunny spot on the kitchen floor. She was terrified of the vacuum cleaner and absolutely fearless about squirrels. She never once understood why she wasn't allowed on the bed, and she eventually decided the rule didn't apply to her.

Biscuit, you were our friend through every part of our lives. You taught us to slow down, to take walks, and to forgive quickly. You were a very good girl. The house is too quiet without you, and we will love you always.

Making a eulogy your own

Once you have the shape, here's how to turn it into your own:

  • Start with one true detail. A phrase they always said or a habit that made you smile is a stronger opening than "We are gathered here today."
  • Pick one or two stories, not ten. A single story, told with specifics, is worth more than a list of qualities.
  • Be honest without being harsh. You can say someone was stubborn, or hard to live with, and still be loving. Most people in the room already know.
  • Use their voice. A line they used to say can say more than a paragraph of yours.
  • Finish by speaking to them. Many speakers end by saying goodbye directly to the person. It's simple, and it gives you a clear last line.
  • Time it. Read it out loud with a timer. If it runs long, cut stories, not feelings.

If you'd like a poem or a short reading to include, Poems About Death and Dying has public-domain choices. For more help with writing, you may find a book of sample eulogies helpful. Top 5 Eulogy Writing Books

It's all right if you cry. It's all right if you need to stop. Bring a printed copy and a second person who can step in and finish for you, if you need that. Everyone in the room is on your side.

Ready to write yours? Work through it on paper with the eulogy workbook.

Sources

Written by Words to Comfort

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