When from school o’er Little Field with its brook and wooden brig,
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big,
While I held my little plough though ’twas but a willow twig,
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name,
“Gee hep” and “hoit” and “woi”—O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind,
While I see little mouldiwarps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains,
And nature hides her face while they’re sweeing in their chains
And in a silent murmuring complains.