Alas! poor Biddy’s occupation’s gone.
No laundress of the vulgar sort was she,
(Cruel the fate which thus could snatch her from me,)
A faithful soul, and from pretence so free,
It went against her grain to wash a “Tommy.”
Full many a worshipper at Fashion’s shrine,
Owed half his neatness to her starch and iron;
From swells who sport their shirts of cambric fine,
To dandy boys with collars à la Byron.
Not all the symmetry of well made suits,