_Teag._ Why, he asked me, How did my wife go to stool? to which I answered, the same way that other people go to a chair: no, said he, that’s not what I mean, how does she purge? Arra, Mr. Doctor, said I, all the fire in Purgatory wont purge her clean; for she has both a cold and stinking breath. Sir, said he, that is not what I ask you; whether does she shit thick or thin? Arra, Mr. Doctor, said I, it is sometimes so thick and hard, that you may take it in your hand, and cut it like a piece of cheese, or pudding, and at other times you may drink it, or sup it with a spoon. At this he flew into a most terrible rage, and kicked me down stairs, and would give me nothing to her, but called me a dirty vagabond for speaking of shit before ladies. _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 my 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 buttermilk 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? _Teag._ Do you imagine I was such a big fool as bury my children alive along with a dead woman; Arra, dear honey, we always commonly give nothing along with a dead person, but an old shirt, a winding sheet, a big hammer, with a long candle, and an Irish silver three-penny piece? _Tom._ Dear Paddy, and what do they make of all these things? _Teag._ Then Tom, since you are so inquisitive, you must go ask the Priest. _Tom._ What did you make of your children Paddy?