And own they’re more than she can number.
This she might do; but then ’twould grieve her,
To find no mortal did believe her.
She calls you patroness and friend,
And begs that blessings may attend
Upon you in your humble cot,
And keep your ’scutcheon free frae blot.
May sweet contentment, hard to find,
With radient lustre light your mind;
While numbers of your sister train