These burd’some errands weigh down ’pon my soul,
And shackle me; I’m hardly self-reg’l’tory.
Not hard to see these chores on me their toll,
My face they rack with seams of foul ’mbroid’ry.
I sorely miss and wish I had more time:
She swims me by-I haven’t a hope or prayer.
I’m forced to drink this sour laborious lime
My cumb’some fetters drown me in despair.
But why do I still fight this ’nending strife
Of pain and bear my feet these shards of glass?
This too shall come to pass, is why, that’s life!
It shall o’er me this cup of suff’ring pass.
I must not be deceived my hope’s dead sick,
Her slumber’s caused by some mild sop’rific.
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