I am in my nature as brisk as a fly,
Resolving to live the day after I die;
And when I am dead, this live body to save,
Plant a peck of potatoes plump over my grave;
Then, hedge me well round with some big pebble stones,
Else father Mai’s pigs will soon root up my bones;
For sure foolish I’d look at the trumpet’s last sound,
When my body’s to rise, and no bones to be found.
As I’ve nothing to leave, so I’ve made my last will,
Chalk’d up on a slate, without paper or quill;
And JUDAH my wife, the delight of my bed,
Swears she won’t open it till I am dead;
With tears in her eyes too, that did her face souse,
She vows she’ll keep single, tho’ I quit the house;
When I know that the moment my back’s to her face,
She’ll be flying to Paddy O’Blarney’s embrace.
Good luck t’her, say I, for the comfort I’ve had,
For when I was merry, she always was sad;
Dead husbands, she tells me, are not worth a curse,
And live ones are often no better than worse.
When she sleeps all alone, she’s all night wide awake,
And dreams that the devil her conscience will take;
To drive him away from her head, my sweet bride
Must have a live spouse to lie by her backside.
Well, let her be married again, what care I,
I’m off to my grave, other fish I’ve to fry;
I forgive her, God knows, sure without any bother,
Oh, she’ll think of Pat’s thing if she gets such another.
And now, as the breath in my body’s all gone,
A word or two more, and then Paddy has done;
But yet, when I think on’t, I’ve nothing to say,
For to-morrow we’re here, and are all gone to-day.