Snell moans the east wind,
Chill drizzles the rain
Round the lone steading
Of Labour-in-vain.

Blind are the windows
With never a pane,
And reekless the chimneys
Of Labour-in-vain.

Byres empty of cattle,
Barns empty of grain,
And naked the roof-tree
Of Labour-in-vain.

Yet, gaunt, peaked and sallow
As moons on the wane,
The ghosts of old tenants
Haunt Labour-in-vain.

And shriller than peesweeps
Their voices complain
And greet for the ruin
Of Labour-in-vain —

Though life was one heartbreak
Of trouble and pain,
Would we were still living
At Labour-in-vain.

Though life was a struggle,
The stress and the strain
Knitted our heart-strings
To Labour-in-vain.

We tilled the sour acres
And sowed the scant grain,
And hoped for a harvest
At Labour-in-vain.

And beaten and broken
In body and brain
We breathed our last sadly
At Labour-in-vain.

In death there is nothing
To lose or to gain
While at least hope was left us
At Labour-in-vain.

Snell moans the east wind,
Chill drizzles the rain
Round the lone steading
Of Labour-in-vain.

And shriller than peesweeps
Their voices complain
And greet for the ruin
Of Labour-in-vain.