Mrs Thurlow makes no longer her days strained.
Her potato fields have turned barren.
The bicycle, by the yard leaks to hiss no more,
With the only friend, once she her fortune gained.

Mrs Thurlow has her dreams sunken in her wrinkled eyes.
Her daily toils set in a mouthful whispers.
Upon Fate alone She lays bare her burdens,
Hopes and worries for aye she defies.

Save where the dusky mound, once her home did stand.
Her fancy flitters nowhere to the past.
But Mrs Thurlow is now stooping to the ground,
And long let her labours flop down the band.