Mrs. Simple after her arrival at Halifax
Modest! Polite! Genteel! Heavens what deceit
Dwells in the breast of those I termed grat!
But now too late, my shame and grief appear.
I'm lost! Undone! Stopped short in my career.
A barn my dwelling, paltry fish my food,
With insuylts, scorn, and execrations lewd.
Oh sad disgrace! But this is not the worst.
I'm by my husband and my daughter cursed.
Our Bashaw, to, forever in a tease,
Vents his dire spleen on us, poor refugees.
Accursed state, from towering hopes I've fell,
To her with transports and such devils dwell.
One tear my injured country week for me,
And for that tear, may you be ever free.
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
