I'm a poor farm boy, but I'm alive.
Days come and go, while I work.
Harrows, saws and ploughs, mows, digs and plows.
Go behind my oxen, hoy whistling and whistling.
I'm a poor farm boy, and I chew my snuff.
And when the larda comes, I want to get drunk.
Then, when I'm alive I want to be tamed and sad.
I also want to rest with a girl, first.
Then, then comes the sun, and then our priest wants
that I go to church, but then I mostly sleep .
The priest may well sleep all Monday but,
for a poor peasant boy, the knuckle breaks again.
So goes the whole week, every day and year.
I go with my scythe, and I plow and sow.
I drive my oxen and I heed my hay.
Harrows, plows and winnows, and at last I shall die.
Strike there, poor peasant boy by Heaven's gate.
A little scared and sad for the sins I have committed.
One should not drink, hang out with girls and make mistakes.
The Lord, God in Heaven, is well displeased at first.
But, then the Lord says: Poor peasant, come here.
I have seen your struggle and your eternal toil.
Therefore, poor peasant, you are welcome sir.
Therefore, poor peasant, you shall be me no.
oh, I, poor peasant boy stand so still before God.
And then he puts on me the most snow-white robe.
Now You, says the Lord, your work is finished.< br/>Now you, poor farm boy, now you can rest.

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