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"Thy daughter is wretch'd, ſleep ſoftly my mother,
Kind heaven reliev'd thee from this rending ſcene,
Beneath this green turf lies my huſband and brother,
Perhaps my brave father is now 'mongſt the ſlain:
Demons! 'twas brutely, in ſpite of my ſcreaming,
To murder my babe with pure innocence beaming,
Soldier's 'twas mad while this wound ſtill was ſtreaming,
To take the laſt Treaſure of poor Malvonie."
Thus the poor Maniac rav'd, till exhauſted, expiring,
She ſunk to the ground, all aſſiſtance was vain;
Now faſt from her body the ſoul was tranſpiring,
