An' beäten weäves below.
Zee how the tweilèn vo'k do bend
Upon their windward track,
Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end,
A-flutt'rèn at their back."
I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried,
An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide,
My head upon my breast.
Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear,
'Tis hard vor souls to rest.