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,