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I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd Wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.

I be sick o' the smeech o' your God.