They’s trees an’ scen’ry out in front, green fiel’s,
A rollin’ hill or so, a crick, a bunch
O’ little houses whar they’s fokes at work,
An’ things looks peeceful, like they do here’bouts
In this ’ere Skillet deestric’ in Jooly.
But back o’ all them things yew seem ter see
A wall o’ clouds a-fencin’ on ’em in,
An’ yew cain’t tell ’f they’s mount’ins, sea, or what
A-layin’ off behind, it’s all so dim.
Afore I’ve blowed the light out menny nights