My grief I can’t control—
He never left a single shillin’
His widder to console.
But that wa’n’t his fault—he was so out o’ health for a number o’ year afore he died, it ain’t to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin’—however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,—he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,—begrudged folks their vittals when they come to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I’d such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I’d hold my tongue about my neighbors’ husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,—used to swear like all possest when he got mad,—and I’ve heard my husband say (and he wa’n’t a man that ever said anything that wa’n’t true),—I’ve heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! “His widder to console,”—ther ain’t but one more verse, ’tain’t a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,—“What did you stop so soon for?”—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby’s she thought I’d better a’ stopt afore I’d begun,—she’s a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I’d like to see some poitry o’ hern,—I guess it would be astonishin’ stuff; and mor’n all that, she said there wa’n’t a word o’ truth in the hull on’t,—said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin’ lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunatic Arsenal. But that’s a painful subject, I won’t dwell on’t.
I conclude as follers:—
I’ll never change my single lot,—
I think ’twould be a sin,—
The inconsolable widder o’ Deacon Bedott
Don’t intend to git married agin.
Excuse my cryin’—my feelin’s always overcomes me so when I say that poitry—O-o-o-o-o-o!