(by Keith Scowcroft lyrics, Derek Gifford music)

I've walled the in-bye to the peewit's wild cry,
On the fell with the wind in the heather,
I've walled the rough stone on the hill all alone
For to shelter the yow and the wether;
Stone wall and stone drain, in the wind and the rain,
I've fettled and set them together,
I've heard the snipe drum to an early pale sun,
And the grouse call a change in the weather,
And the grouse call a change in the weather.

I've a spade in a sack which I take on me back
And a tommy-bar short and well-hipped
To clear all the fall from the gap in the wall
And to dig out the founds that have slipped;
With the rack of me eye I can tell a stone's lie
And I'll never have courses that's dipped;
Yet a stone once selected is seldom rejected,
With copings all tight and well-nipped,
With copings all tight and well-nipped.

Now there's no fortune made at this stonewalling trade,
Ten shilling a rood is the rate;
Stoop, stile, and smoot hole are all counted as one,
And there's no waller paid for a mate;
Still it's gritstone for me, that's as rough as can be,
For I care not for shingle nor slate;
For it's faster headway at the end of the day
That pays for the coal in the grate,
That pays for the coal in the grate.

Now when I were a lad I sad to my dad
That I'd wall for a trade if I could,
For the winter storms bring you fresh work every spring
As the drifts give the stone walls a shove;
So as man, lad, and boy, I've found full employ,
And when Jesus calls me up above,
I'll ask the Great Caller does he want a waller,
For walling's the trade that I love;
Yes, walling's the trade that I love.

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