To my dear wife,
My joy and life,
I freely now do give her
My whole estate,
With all my plate,
Being just about to leave her.

A tub of soap,
A long cart-rope,
A frying-pan and kettle;
An ashes pail,
A threshing flail,
An iron wedge and beetle.

Two painted chairs,
Nine warden pears,
A large old dripping platter;
The bed of hay,
On which I lay,
An old saucepan for butter.

A little mug,
A two-quart jug,
A bottle full of brandy;
A looking-glass,
To see your face,
You'll find it very handy.

A musket true
As ever flew,
A pound of shot, and wallet;
A leather sash,
My calabash,
My powder-horn, and bullet.

An old sword-blade,
A garden spade,
A hoe, a rake, a ladder;
A wooden can,
A close-stool pan,
A clyster-pipe, and bladder.

A greasy hat,
My old ram-cat,
A yard and half of linen;
A pot of grease,
A woollen fleece,
In order for your spinning.

A small toothcomb,
An ashen broom,
A candlestick, and hatchet;
A coverlid,
Striped down with red,
A bag of rags to patch it.

A ragged mat,
A tub of fat,
A book, put out by Bunyan,
Another book,
By Robin Rook,
A skein, or two, of spun yarn.

An old black muff,
Some garden stuff,
A quantity of borage;
Some Devil's-weed,
And burdock seed,
To season well your porridge.

A chafing-dish,
With one salt fish,
If I am not mistaken;
A leg of pork,
A broken fork,
And half a flitch of bacon.

A spinning-wheel,
One peck of meal;
A knife without a handle;
A rusty lamp,
Two quarts of samp,
And half a tallow candle.

My pouch and pipes,
Two oxen tripes,
An oaken dish well carved;
My little dog,
And spotted hog,
With two young pigs just starved.

This is my store,
I have no more,
I heartily do give it;
My days are spun,
My life is done,
And so I think to leave it.