Rough is the road,—your wheel is out of order,—
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't,
So have your breeches!
Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 't is crying all day 'Knives and
Scissors to grind O!
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?