To carry a hod, make you shoulder an ass,
My tight peep of day boys, leave stones, bricks, and mortar,
Come one after t’other, rise all in a mass.
Go taste but the water of Wicklow’s clear fountain,
And then, in a moment, you’ll miracles find;
By the stream that runs up to the top of the mountain,
Like a watch case of gold will your bodies be lin’d.
VIII.
And you L⸺M⸺M like penny-post walking,
All up and down London to bother the stones,