Work, more work, when they looked for ease—
To the day’s discomfort, the night’s despair,
In the hope of a prize that they never would share.
(Singing) “Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Man is born to toil and woe.
One will cure the other—so
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—you—It.”
Once and again, as the Ice went North
The grass crept up to the Firth of Forth.