Who painted and patched and powdered, and was finiking, fine and French.
She was no more French than I am, but this was about the time,
That French was the title given to nigh every kind of crime.
She sang in a minor play-house—in opera, so they say—
And he saw her as Polly Peachum in that famous work by Gay.
He was always an easy target for a wench’s rolling eye,
So it got to bouquets and presents, and to letters by-and-by,
He was wax in the hussy’s fingers, and she moulded with practiced skill,
Till he took the form of a husband, the slave of her slightest will.
They traveled about a little, saw Paris, the Hague and Rome—