Of moles… and the Enclosures

When I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind 
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains 
& nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their chains 
& in a silent murmuring complains 
Here was commons for their hills where they seek for freedom still 
Though every commons gone & though traps are set to kill 
The little homeless miners—O it turns my bosom chill 
When I think of old “sneap green” puddocks nook & hilly snow 
Where bramble bushes grew & the daisy gemmed in dew 
& the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view 
Where we threw the pissmire crumbs when we'd nothing else to do 
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough 
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now

(mouldywharps, miners = moles)

(sweeing = swinging)

(puddocks = red kites)

(pissmire = ant)

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