I from my scanty table send no meat;
Cook’d and recook’d is every joint I eat.
At Church a sermon begs our help—I stop
And drop a tear; nought else have I to drop;
But pass the out-stretch’d plate with sorrow by, 790
And my sad heart this kind relief deny.
My dress—I strive with all my maiden skill
To make it pass, but ’tis disgraceful still;
Yet from all others I my wants conceal—
Oh! Captain Elliot, there are few that feel!