Old man, old man, whither are you hobbling?
Old man Jobling, whither are you going —
Battered hat and tattered coat and clogs in need of cobbling —
And the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing?

Young man Catchieside, and if I go afairing
Who's declaring I'm too old for going —
Dressed in Sunday-best and all? And why should I be caring
For the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing?

Ay, but what will come of you as drifts get deep and deeper,
Steep roads steeper, and your shanks too numb for going?
Happen I shall nap — I was ever a good sleeper
With the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing.

Deep will be your sleep ... It's truth you are declaring —
After fairing, whichever way we're going,
Deep will be the sleep of all; so why should I be caring
For the snell wind lowing and the mirk lift snowing?