At hwome, below
The lofty row
O' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro.
An' there in het, an' there in wet,
We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John;
Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het,
Did better our own lands, John.
But after me, ov all my kin,
Not woone can hold em on;
Vor we can't get a life put in