From The Worker (Wagga, NSW: Sat 2 May 1903), Page 3:

BALLAD OF WIDOW McSUBURB.

(During a Melbourne, Vic., Police Court trial recently, a fortune-teller and medium, prosecuted for plying her nefarious trade, stated in cross-examination that most women, particularly widows, had great faith and belief in mediums, clairvoyants, and other spiritual manifestations. She knew of one case where a widow committed suicide by poison because a medium had told her that she had communicated with her late husband, who strongly disapproved of his widow's intended second marriage, and desired her to join him in Paradise.)

The widow McSuburb lay restless in bed,
Her heart full of doubt and of trouble.
She couldn't decide 'twixt the Mac who was dead
And the love of the living McStubble.

Since William McSuburb—a church-going man—
Had died, we may just as well mention,
John Michael McStubble, of similar clan,
Was paying the widow attention.

The widow McSuburb had faith and belief
In spiritual manifestation.
She hied to a seance in search of relief
From her doubt and her sore tribulation.

"The spirit of William," she cried, "shall decide
The fate of myself and McStubble."
And the medium begged the Mac who had died
To drop in and settle the trouble.

The gas was turned down, and trembling with sheer
Excitement and keen expectation,
The widow sat breathless, with hand at her ear
Awaiting the weird consultation.

"McSuburb is here," then a ghostly voice sighs,
And begs his dear wifey in trouble
To join him at once up in Paradise
And turn a cold shoulder to Stubble.

The gaslight flared up, and the medium woke,
And the ghost of McSuburb had vanished;
The grave spell of doubt of the widow was broke,
And McStubble immediately banished.

Then the faithful poor widow took poison and cried:
"You've called, Mac—I come—I am dying!"
And ancient St. Peter heard something outside
His portal that sounded like crying.

"McSuburb?' asked Peter, in tones of surprise,
"He doesn't live here, my good woman,"
And the sorrowful tears in the good widow's eyes
Made the saint feel remarkably human.

"McSuburb," Pete stammered, "was unfit to dwell
With angels and saints here in heaven.
His rakish skulduggery has sent him where—well—
He's roasting on grate number seven."