With look of affluence drew me from the road;
But grumbling there a residence had found,
Light was so plaguy dear at that abode.
Hard was the answer, and the cut was sore;
Here, where I hoped for good a pound a head,
A maid-of-all-work drove me from the door,
“We pays too much for Winder Tax,” she said.
* * * * *
A great success I thought would be my lot,
When, for a lark, I broach’d my plan, one morn;