MARIA LORD THROWN OVER THE BRIDGE

                    So Edward has thrown me over the bridge,
                    puts me to the blush.  Swears I misused my body,

                    indeed!  Yes, I dorsed with him before marriage;

                    he complained not about his prize Judy

                    then!  Man and wife six and ten years, a phos

                    to the Female Factory at Parramatta,

                    where you eyed over your assigned mistress.

                    Pullets for plucking!  But an Officer

                    and Gentleman I durst not refuse.  I swished to quit that

                    foul and filthy loft, the prison-crib, those stinking privies,

                    cooped up carding, spinning, weaving coarse clouts

                    for chums.  I yearned to be a rag-covess

                    and you were a nib with prime connections

                    back Home and in Vandemonia.  You

                    won land grants and priceless convict navvies, raised

                    the brads.  What drummonds we shared!  I brought dues

                    to light, built up the covenants of trade.

                    Thrifty, bold, never struck upon the mace,

                    I was flash to every move on the board:

                    monopolies in wheat and meat, sold caz,

                    supplied Knopwood gallons of lush, loaned blunt,

                    bonneted for you in rum.  More than your
                    helpmeet; partners, palls.  Smooth fop, you didn’t
                    come to the mark, flew the quids, mizzled for

                    Sydney.  I’ll be sworn, you have wrung my heart
                    taking away our six dear children, all currency.
                    I must nash from Ingle Hall, the family pew at St David’s, part
                    without parley.  You haven’t quite cleaned me

                    out.  Had I been widowed, not abandoned,
                    my repute would not be dragged through danna,
                    a convict whore once more.  I have kindred
                    and still deal as hard-headed trader.

                    Even now I’ve set up a new store,
                    wines and spirits, cheese, pickles, gowns of the latest fashion.
                    I’m still adept at turning money here,
                    in spite, Lord Paramour, you sought my humiliation.

                    The charge of criminal conversation
                    with Rowcroft, four and ten years my junior,
                    trumps me. Yes, we’d meet to taste fruits in the river garden 
                    but his conversation is not so sweet as your hand; he’s no sponger.

                    So now your courts brand me whore,
                    whose Derwent dinners and balls were the best
                    in the colony for society’s finest who greased the law.
                    Fore Gad, with many sluts you’ve tried it on!  Lest

                    I die first, you’ll grab all my worldly goods,
                    whiles milord don’t wack none of his precious rights . . .
                    Property, inheritance, childer, the shop.  Wouldst
                    that a woman, free settler, legitimate or pardoned, might indict!

 Michael Small               March 3-10, 2004