His clumsy knobbed shoes cobbled over so thickly,
Though his toes started out as he trod on the ground,
His hose hanging over each side of his hoggers,
All plashed in the puddles as he followed the plough;
Two miserable mittens made out of old rags,
The fingers worn out and the filth clotted on them,
He, wading in mud, almost up to his ankles,
And before him four oxen, so weary and feeble,
One could reckon their ribs, so rueful were they.
His wife walked beside him, with a long ox goad,