E’en picking hops it hath a sting
For spiders there assembled be,
Mosqueetoes, bugs, and et ceteree.
I have to work, oh! very hard;
Old Toil, I know your breadth, and length.
I’m tired to death; and in one word
I have to work beyond my strength,
And mortal men are very tough
To get along with—nasty, rough.
Yes, tribulation’s doomed to her