Uds bodykins! chill work no more:
Dost think chill labour to be poore?
No ich have more a do:
If of the world this be the trade,
That ich must break zo knaves be made,
Ich will a blundering too.

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

God blesse us what a world is here,
It can ne’r last another year,
Vor ich can’t be able to zoe:
Dost think that ever chad 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
Chill make a shrewd a do:
Vor then chave power in any place,
To steal a horse without disgrace,
And beat the owner too.

Ich had zix oxen tother day,
And them the Roundheads vetcht away,
A mischief be their speed.
And chad zix horses left me whole,
And them the Cabbelleero’s stole:
Chee voor men be agreed.

Here ich do labour, toyl, 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 vaper:
When to the Governour ich do come,
And pray him to discharge my Zum,
Chave nothing but a paper.

U’ds 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 throte.

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

If all this be not grief enow,
They have a thing cald quarter too
O ’tis a vengeance waster:
A pox upon ’t, they call it vree,
Cham zure they make us slaves to be,
And every rogue our master.