University of Virginia Library

So Misthress Cain—that's Shimmin, you know,
That was then—was taken uncommon low,
And wouldn' ate and wouldn' spake,
And gettin' very thin and wake.
And it wasn' no matter what they were tryin'—
Aw, 'deed I believe she was out of her mind,
For a while, at least. And Parson Craine,
A rum ould chap that was vicar then,
Was axed would he come and pay her a visit.
So they tould him the way. “A dumb divil, is it,
She's got?” and they looked! “Aw, well, I guess
You'd better lave her alone!” he says—
Like maenin', It's well to be rid of their talk,
The women, you know. Aw, a hearty old cock
Was Craine, I've heard, a rael ould Turk.
So then the Methodists went to work,
And the lot of them hummin' about her like midges;
And got her to be a sort of religious;
Lek stupid lek, and very meek,
And had her converted in a week—
In a week she got pace; and rather blamin' her
The slow she was, like a sort of shamin' her.
Pace! Aw, 'deed, I'd aisy belave
She had pace; but was it the pace of the grave?
Well, well, there's many worse places.
Pace! it's a word I'm fond of, pace is.
Pace, pace from all her woes!
Pace, pace! God only knows—
Perfect pace—the people was say'n';
Perfect pace—and then—comes Cain!