He plays with other boys when work is done
But feels too clumsy and too stiff to run
Yet where there's mischief he can find a way
The first to join and last [to run] away
What's said or done he never hears or minds
But gets his pence for all the eggs he finds
He thinks his master's horses far the best
And always labours longer than the rest
In frost and cold though lame he's forced to go
The call's more urgent when he journeys slow
In surly speed he helps the maids by force
And feeds the cows and hallos till he's hoarse
And when he's lame they only jest and play
And bid him throw his kiby heels away