And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed;1
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
-This lusty Lamb of all my store

Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die,

And perish all of poverty.

V.

Six Children, Sir! had I to feed ;2
Hard labour in a time of need!

My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.

They said, I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,3
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

Do this: how can we give to you,'

They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

I 1836.

VI.

I sold a sheep, as they had said,

And bought my little children bread,

And they were healthy with their food;

For me it never did me good.

A woeful time it was for me,

To see the end of all my gains,

The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,

To see it melt like snow away

For me it was a woeful day.

VII.

Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopped

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
Till thirty were not left alive

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone-
Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.1

VIII.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And, crazily and wearily

I went my work about;

1

1827.

They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

1798.

And oft was moved to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam,1

IX.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;

And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

X.

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe ;-
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one:

And here it lies upon my arm,

Alas! and I have none;

To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."

[Alfoxden, 1798. The last stanza, "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold," was the foundation of the whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same reported of other idiots. Let me add, that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth I never wrote anything with so much glee.]

'TIS eight o'clock,-a clear March night,
The moon is up,-the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from nobody knows where; 1
He lengthens out his lonely shout,
Halloo halloo! a long halloo !

-Why bustle thus about your door,
What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
Why are you in this mighty fret?
And why on horseback have you set
Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy? 2

He shouts from nobody knows where.

2 Inserted in edd. 1798 to 1820.

Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
Till she is tired, let Betty Foy

With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle ;

But wherefore set upon a saddle
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

1798.

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed;

1798.

His lips with joy they burr at you;
But, Betty what has he to do
With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? 1

But Betty's bent on her intent;
For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile,
No hand to help them in distress;
Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
And sorely puzzled are the twain,
For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood,
Where by the week he doth abide,
A woodman in the distant vale;
There's none to help poor Susan Gale ;
What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched
Her Pony, that is mild and good;
Whether he be in joy or pain,
Feeding at will along the lane,
Or bringing faggots from the wood.

1 Inserted in edd. 1798 to 1820.

The world will say 'tis very idle,
Bethink you of the time of night;

There's not a mother, no not one,
But when she hears what you have done,

Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.