O monster of reason what have you forgotten:
how we wet the drying fields of linen
and Barley where you ground my com with a jug of mughouse ale
and fresh and naughty manners; this was our rusticating;

you strode a giant amongst my hills and made the river flow.

Now you stride through town cocking a snoop
at all you laughed and jollied with before;
nothing but a prig made up to look like summat.

But your dear pouch must yearn
like a custom weavers shuttle for some
decent to and fro.

I know my threads are breaking without your damp,
snapping like twigs in Autumn,
Arid dry as an empty jug.