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 All day she spun in her poor dwelling, And then her three hours' work at night! Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. —This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage, But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 'Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty dame Would sit, as any linnet gay.