If I had a farm, an' no need to be beggin' my bread,
I'd work till my fingers were all wore away to the bone.
It wouldn't be me you would see lyin' long in my bed;
I'd be out by the squeak o' the day, lookin' after my own.

But the pride of industry flies out at the raggedy holes
In a coat an' a trousers an' maybe the half of a shirt.
You rich, let you wear to a shadow your bodies an' souls;
The beggar is happy to lie on his back in the dirt.