But when you rob’d your flesh and bones
In that pure white that angel garb is,
Who could have thought you, Mary Jones,
Among the Joans that link with Darbies?
And when the parson came to say,
My goods were yours, if I had got any,
And you should honour and obey,
Who could have thought—“O Bay of Botany.”
But, oh,—the worst of all your slips