And from this one, this single ewe, 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 My pride was tamed, and in our grief They said, I was a wealthy man; 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 To see it melt like snow away For me it was a woeful day. VII. Another still! and still another! It was a vein that never stopped Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; VIII. To wicked deeds I was inclined, I went my work about; 1 1827. They dwindled one by one away; 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, God cursed me in my sore distress; And every week, and every day, X. They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! 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; [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, -Why bustle thus about your door, He shouts from nobody knows where. 2 Inserted in edd. 1798 to 1820. Beneath the moon that shines so bright, With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle ; But wherefore set upon a saddle 1798. There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; 1798. His lips with joy they burr at you; But Betty's bent on her intent; There's not a house within a mile, And Betty's husband's at the wood, And Betty from the lane has fetched 1 Inserted in edd. 1798 to 1820. The world will say 'tis very idle, There's not a mother, no not one, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. |