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And never smil'd again! and now she roams
apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
I see a column of slow rising smoke O’ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel—flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race!