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.