Here lies my wife in earthly mould,
Who, when she liv’d, did naught but scold;
Peace, wake her not, for now she’s still,
She had, but now I have my will.
Here lies my poor wife, much lamented
She’s happy, and I’m contented.
This turf has drunk a widow’s tear,
Three of her husbands slumber here.
It may be interesting to state that the tearful
widow was still living with a fourth partner.
My wife lies here,
All my tears cannot bring her back;
Therefore, I weep.