_Teag._ Ay, that's what I did, and a wicked wife, too; and, my dear shoy, I can't tell whether she is gone to Purgatory or the parish of Pig-trantrum, for she told me she should certainly die the first opportunity she could get, as this present evil world was not worth the waiting on, so she would go and see what good things is in the world to come; so when that old rover called the Fever came raging over the whole kingdom, she went away and died out of spite, leaving me nothing. _Tom._ O, but, Paddy, you ought to have gone to a doctor, and got some pills and physic for her. _Teag._ By Shaint Patrick, I had as good a pill of my own as any doctor in the kingdom could give her. _Tom._ O, you fool, that is not what I mean. You ought to have brought the doctor to feel her pulse, and let blood off her if he thought it needful. _Teag._ Yes, that's what I did, for I ran to the doctor whenever she died, and sought something for a dead or dying woman. The old foolish devil was at his dinner, and began to ask me some stupid questions, and then kicked me down stairs. _Tom._ And in what good order did you bury your wife when she died? _Teag._ O, my dear shoy, she was buried in all manner of pomp, pride, and splendour--a fine coffin, with cords in it; and within the coffin, along with herself, she got a pair of new brogues, a penny candle, a good, hard-headed old hammer, with an Irish sixpenny piece, to pay her passage at the gate, and what more could she look for? _Tom._ I really think you gave her enough along with her, but you ought to have cried for her, if it was no more but to be in the fashion. _Teag._ And why should I cry without sorrow, when we hired two criers to cry all the way before her to keep her in the fashion? _Tom._ And what do they cry before a dead woman? _Teag._ Why, they cry the common cry, or funeral lament, that is used in our Irish country. _Tom._ And what manner of cry is that, Paddy? _Teag._ Dear Tom, if you don't know I'll tell you. When any person dies there is a number of criers goes before, saying, "Luff, fuff, fou, allelieu, dear honey, what aileth thee to die! It was not for want of good butter milk and potatoes." PART III. _Tom._ Well, Paddy, and what did you do when your wife died? _Teag._ Dear honey, what would I do? Do you think I was such a big fool as to die too? I am sure if I had I would not have got fair play, when I am not so old yet as my father was when he died. _Tom._ No, Paddy, it is not that I mean. Was you sorry, or did you weep for her? _Teag._ Weep for her! By Shaint Patrick, I would not weep, nor yet be sorry, suppose my own mother and all the women in Ireland had died seven years before I was born. _Tom._ What did you do with your children when she died?