Broke down with sorrow, lame, and past all use,
Oh! give me corn, and Heaven will bless your store.
My feather’d coat, once lily white, and sleek,
By cruel pluckings grown so bare and thin;
These rags, alas; doth misery bespeak,
And show my bones, just starting thro’ the skin.
Come, Biddy, come, that well-known pleasing sound,
Stole in soft murmurs from Dame Partlet’s farm;
For plenty there, in youthful days, I found,
So waddled on, unconscious then of harm.