Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,
Will meet wi' health upon their road.
But biden up till dead o' night,
When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,
By candlelight, do soon consume
The feäce's bloom, an' turn it white.
An' moon-beäms cast vrom midnight skies
Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.
Vor health do weäke vrom nightly dreams
Below the mornen's eärly beams,