Methinks ’twould colder make the stun If but one name, the name of she Should linger there alone, alone, How different when the name of he Does also deck the funeral urn Two wedded names, his name and hurn. And sweeter yet, oh! blessed lot Oh! state most dignified and blest To be a widder calmly sot And have both dignity and rest. Oh, Simon, strangely sweet ’twould be To be a widder unto thee. The warfare past, the horrors done, With maiden ease and pride of wife, The dignity of wedded one, The calm and peace of single life; Oh strangely sweet this lot doth seem, A female widder is my theme. I would not hurt a hair of he, Yet did he from earth’s toils escape I could most reconciled be Could sweetly mourn e’en without crape Could say without a pang of pain That Simon’s loss was Betsey’s gain. I’ve told the plain tale of my woes, With no deceit or language vain, Have told whereon my hopes are rose Have sung my mournful song of pain. And now e’en I will end my tale I’ve sung my song, I’ve wailed my wail. “Wall, I call it foolish stuff,” I said, when I had finished. “Though, if I was to measure ’em with a yardstick, the lines might come out pretty nigh an equal length, and so I s’pose it would be called poetry.” At any rate, I have made a practice, ever since, of callin’ it so; for I am one that despises envy and jealousy amongst sister authoresses. No, you never ketch me at it; I would sooner help ’em up the ladder than upset ’em, and it is ever my practice so to do. But truth must be spoke if subjects are brung up. Uronious views must be condemned by Warriors of the Right, whether ladders be upset, or stand firm, poetesses also. I felt that this poetry attacked a tender subject, a subject dearer to me than all the world besides, the subject of Josiah. Josiah is a man. And I say it, and I say it plain that men hain’t no such creeters as he tries to make out they be. Men are first-rate creeters in lots of things, and as good as wimmen any day of the week. Of course, I agree with Betsy that husbands are tryin’ in lots of things; they need a firm hand to the hellum to guide ’em along through the tempestuous wave of married life, and get along with ’em. They are lots of trouble, and then I think they pay after all. Why, I wouldn’t swap my Josiah for the best house and lot in Janesville, or the crown of the Widder Albert. I love Josiah Allen. And I don’t know but the very trouble he has caused me makes me cling closer to him; you know the harder a horse’s head beats and thrashes against burdock burs, the tighter the burdocks will cling to its mane. Josiah makes me sights of trouble, but I cling to him closely.