by John Kearsley Mitchell
Jail, — What! open, neighbour Almshouse, to the «ky,
What means the dreadful ruin I espy !
The sturdy rogues have crush'd thy wooden crown,
Thou stalwart beggar's pride, thou tax-sink of the town!
Almshouse, — O yes, I'm going fast, the shingles fall,
The joists are cracking, and the groaning wall
Bends to the nod of fate ; already gone
My lights and livers^ and the sign alone.
Assured of death at hand, alas ! remains.
For sinking nature's left without her panes.
Jail, — Ah ! what a sacrilege ! that open door.
So indiscriminate to sorrow, now no more.
Last updated June 27, 2019