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With happy heart I then would die,
And my last thought would happy be ;1
But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
Nor shall I see another day.2

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THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

Composed 1798.-Published 1798

[Produced at the same time as The Complaint, and for the same purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by Alfoxden.-I. F.]

ED.

Included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."

I

IN distant countries have I been,3
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet :
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ;
And in his arms a Lamb he had.

II

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide :

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And with his coat did then essay 1
To wipe those briny tears away.

I followed him, and said, "My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"

"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetched him from the rock :
He is the last of all my flock.

III

"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,

Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe 2 I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

IV

"Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine 3 a flock as ever grazed!

Upon the Quantock hills they fed; 4

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.

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V

“Six1 Children, Sir! had I to feed;
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 2 fed,

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?'

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.

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It was a vein that never stopped

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

1 1800.

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;

And I may say, that many a time

I wished they all were gone—

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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;

And oft was moved to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam.2

IX

"Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store

1827.

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,

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

2 1836.

Oft-times I thought to run away;

1798.

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For me it was a woeful day.

1798.

Bent oftentimes to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

1827.

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."

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100

THE IDIOT BOY

Composed 1798.-Published 1798

[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 repeated 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.-I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."-ED.

1 1827.

'Tis eight o'clock,-a clear March night,
The moon is up,—the sky is blue,
The owlet, in the moonlight air,
Shouts from 1 nobody knows where;
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?

He shouts from

1798.

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