The Complaint of a Bonnet

I once was a Sunday bonnetAnd shaded a lovely face,But now for some reason or otherI find I'm in disgrace.

My fair young mistress treats meWith unrelenting scorn;Excepting in bad weatherShe never puts me on.

She took away my bandboxTo shelter her new hat;She says I am not stylish,What can she mean by that?

She says my rim's too flaring.And that my crown's too small;And yet, upon my honor,I haven't changed at all.

I am the very bonnetThat she admired so,And purchased with such pleasure.But one short year ago.

So why I've ceased to please her,Is more than I can tell,For of one thing I'm certainThat I became her well.

And as for grace and beauty,Why any one can see,The hat that she is wearingDoes not compare with me.