Poem by Francis Grose

On a Wife

My dame and I, full twenty years,
	Liv’d 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 that e’er I see,
	None e’er like her could chatter;

Her body is disposed well,
	A comely grave doth hide her;
And sure her soul is not in hell;
	The devil could never abide her;

Which makes me think she is aloft;
	For in the last great thunder
Methought I heard her well-known voice
	Rending the clouds asunder.

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