Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/On a Violent Scold

On a Violent Scold.

My spouse and I full many a year Lived man and wife together:I could no longer keep her here. She's gone—the Lord knows whither.

Of tongue she was exceeding free, I purpose not to flatter;Of all the wives I e'er did see, None sure like her could chatter,

Her body is disposed of well, A comely grave doth hide her;Her soul? I know not, but can tell, Old Nick could ne'er abide her.

Which makes me guess she's gone aloft, For in the last great thunder,Methought I heard her well-known voice Rending the skies asunder.