Hon. Mrs. Norton.
The Dying Vendor of Vegetables to his Palfrey of Jerusalem.
Where art thou now? where art thou now? my beautiful, my bold;
And shall they take thee far away to green-yards to be sold?
O rather let them take the bed, where now, alas! I lie,
Than seize on thee, for debt or rent, my beautiful—my shy!
They tell me they’ll take care of thee—I know what ’tis they mean,
A truss of hay in half a year, with thistle-tops between.
O no! it shall not be thy fate, I’d rather, ere I part,