She spread her atlas petticoat
So rare, so fine to see.
Her bonnet was of Tuscan straw,
Her shawl was Turkey red.
She peacocked gay before men's eyes,
This lady of degree,
On slippered tiny feet, and ah!
She wished that she were dead.
At every ball, at every rout
She was the toast of town;
But no one knew who called her cold
What cruel wound had she.
The laughing gallant that she loved
Had scorned her high renown,
And now another bore his babe,
And held it on her knee.