In spite of his fear,
At the dyke he worked on until midnight drew near.
But when the glass turned for the last time, he found
That the head of his pick was stuck fast in the ground.
'Cease now!' cried St Cuthman, 'vain is your toil!
Come forth from the dyke! Leave your pick in the soil!
You agreed to work 'tween sunset and morn,
And lo! the glimmer of day is born!
In vain was your fag,
And your senseless brag.'