an' a strange gloor i' their een,
As they marched past an' saluted,
while th' east wind blew snell an' keen.

Dalewards, dalewards, iver dalewards,
th' hill-fowk wander yeer by yeer,
An' they toss their heeads an' flout me,
when they see me bidin' here.

I've one answer to their fleerin':
"I'll noan be a fact'ry slave,
Breathin' poison i' yon wark-shops,
diggin' ivery day my grave."

"You may addle brass i' plenty,
you'll noan addle peace o' mind;
That sal bide amang us farmers
on th' owd hills you've left behind."

See that place down theer i' t' valley,
wheer yon chimleys spit out smoke?
Huthersfield is what they call it,
wheer fowk live like pigs i' t' poke;

Wheer men grind their hearts to guineas,
an' their mills are awlus thrang,
Turnin' neet-time into day-time,
niver stoppin' th' whole yeer lang.

Cambodunum up on th' hill-tops,