At a bright fire she makes the tea, her sorrows flee away;
Where shall she learn our toil who so tender picked it all?
How that without a sign the fierce winds and rains did rise,
Drenching and soaking our persons as if plunged into a bath.
But though my heaving bosom like a well-sweep rise and fall,
Still patient in my poverty and care I’ll never shun my usual toil;
My only thought shall be to have new tea well fired,
That the flag and awl be well rolled and show their whitened down.