For, though no pleasant signs of busy life
Were there, yet its patched windows showed
Some one had there sought shelter from the cold.
’Twas the far-famed Moll Pitcher’s house, the scene
Of many an hour of mirth, and some of pain,
The would-be prophetess, in sullen mood,
Would sometimes vex her votaries, boding ill
Of future times. I well remember once
Standing upon that Rock, with a gay group
Of young companions, and in merry play,