The Western husbandman's lamentation.  

ud's bodykins! Ihill work no more:  
Dost think Ihill labour to be poor?  
No ich have more a do:  
If of the world this be the trade,  
That ich must break so knaves be made,  
Ich will a blundering too.   

Ihill sell my cart and eke my plow,  
And get a zword if ich know how,  
For ich mean to be right:  
Ihill learn to zwear, and drink, and roar,  
And (Gallant leek) Ihill keep a whore,  
No matter who can vight.   

God bless us what a world is here,  
It can ne'er last another year,  
Vor ich can't be able to zoe:  
Dost think that ever ch've the art,  
To plow the ground up with my cart?  
My beasts be all a go.   

But vurst a Warrant ich will get  
From master Captain, that a vet  
Ihill make a shrewd a do:  
Vor then c have power in any place,  
To steal a horse without disgrace,  
And beat the owner too.   

Ich had zix oxen t'other day,  
And them the Roundheads vetcht away,  
A mischief be their speed.  
And ch've zix horses left me whole,  
And them the cabbelleeroes stole:  
Chee voor men be agreed.   

Here ich do labour, toil, and zweat,  
And dure the cold, with dry and heat,  
And what dost think ich get?  
Vaith just my labour vor my pains,  
The garrisons have all the gains,  
Vor thither all's a vet.   

There goes my corn, and beans, and pease,  
Ich do not dare them to displease,  
They do so zwear and vapour:  
When to the governor ich do come,  
And pray him to discharge my Zum,  
C have nothing but a paper.   

Uds niggs, dost think that paper will  
Keep warm my back, and belly vill?  
No, no, go vangethy note:  
If that another year my vield  
No profit do unto me yield,  
Ich may go cut my throat.   

When any money c have in store,  
Then straight a Warrant comes therefore,  
Or ich must blundred be:  
And when c have shuffled out one pay  
Then comes another without delay,  
Was ever the leek a zee?   

If all this be not griefenow,  
They have a thing called quarter too  
O 'tis a vengeance waster:  
A pox upon 't, they call it uree,  
C'm zure they make us slaves to be,  
And every rogue our master.