This time of year a twelvemonth past

So then the summer fields about,

Till rainy days began,

Rose Harland on her Sundays out

Walked with the better man.

The better man she walks with still,

Though now 't is not with Fred:

A lad that lives and has his will

Is worth a dozen dead.

Fred keeps the house all kinds of weather,

And clay 's the house he keeps;

When Rose and I walk out together

Stock-still lies Fred and sleeps.