There are three for my death that now pine,
Though one and all wondrous civil;
Would that all of them hung on a line,
My children, the worms, and the Devil.

My body, my soul, and my gear,
When down to the grave I descend,
The three hope among them to share,
And to revel on time without end.

But there is not one of the three,
To the others though kindly affected,
For both of their shares would agree
To resign his own portion expected.

The Devil, so harsh and austere,
Who only in evil hath joy,
Would scorn to take body and gear
For my soul, that sweet beautiful toy.

My children would rather possess
The gear I have toil’d so to gather,
Though for me fervent love they profess,
Than the body and soul of their father.

The worms, though my children will make
A lament when I’m laid in the hole,
Would my body in preference take
To my gear or my beautiful soul.

Oh, Christ! who wast hung on a tree,
And wast pierc’d by a fool in his madness;
Since each of them plund’ring would be,
Send each disappointment and sadness.