They would not know us now, so dirty grown:
So strong we smell they’d slam the angry door,
Thinking our souls upon the wings of smoke had flown,
Been puffed away upon this dingy shore,
Leaving behind the wasted stumps alone,
Fit on the ash-pile only to be thrown.
Let what is, be as ’tis, of course;
A wife is hard to reconcile;
We might be driven out by force;
’Tis hard to fix things, when they’ve run awhile;