An' gramfer took en wi' the lands:
An' there when he, poor man, wer dead,
My father shelter'd my young head.
An' if I wer a squier, I
Should like to spend my life, an' die
In thik wold house o' mossy stwone,
Up there upon the knap alwone.
Don't talk ov housen all o' brick,
Wi' rockèn walls nine inches thick,
A-trigg'd together zide by zide