Next the Meetin’s they thinned—that’s a fact—till, down to the elders,
Dropped, like leaves in the fall, congregations of e’en the awakened.
Ontil the deacon was forced to look arter the flock of backsliders,
Minister mizzlin’ himself, before long, to look arter the deacon.
Why should Nathan hold on, with his bar of its customers empty,
Strawers unsucked in the cobblers, and mint unplucked in the garding,
Swopped his prime tin doin’s, or sold to the uttermost pipkin?
So he went—but before him the helps, black and Irish, had vanished.
Lone in the shanty she lingered, the fair and forlorn Dollarina—
Lone like a flower, in the face of great natur’, and Governor Tarbox!