They scrap’d the noisy tenor for their bread:
Yet still the blind from insult to protect,
Some faithful consort ever wandering nigh,
With vary’d garb, and uncouth’d pinner deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute with a sigh.
Her ditties oft, though an unletter’d Muse
The place of air and sonnet would supply;
And songs of grace at Christmas would she chuse,
Repaid with luncheons from the grey-goose pye.
For who, so much to gloominess a prey,