THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.
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n distant countries I have been,And yet I have not often seenA healthy man, a man full grownWeep in the public roads alone.But such a one, on English ground,And in the broad high-way, I met;Along the broad high-way he came,His cheeks with tears were wet.Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;And in his arms a lamb he had. He saw me, and he turned aside,As if he wished himself to hide:Then with his coat he made essayTo wipe those briny tears away.I follow’d 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. When I was young, a single man,And after youthful follies ran,Though little given to care and thought,Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;And other sheep from her I raised,As healthy sheep as you might see,And then I married, and was richAs I could wish to be;Of sheep I number’d a full score,And every year encreas’d my store. Year after year my stock it grew,And from this one, this single ewe,Full fifty comely sheep I raised,As sweet a flock as ever grazed!Upon the mountain did they feed;They throve, and we at home did thrive.--This lusty lamb of all my storeIs all that is alive:And now I care not if we die,And perish all of poverty. Ten 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 ask’d relief.They said I was a wealthy man;My sheep upon the mountain fed,And it was fit that thence I tookWhereof to buy us bread:”“Do this; how can we give to you,”They cried, “what to the poor is due?” 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 rearedWith all my care and pains,To see it melt like snow away!For me it was a woeful day. Another still! and still another!A little lamb, and then its mother!It was a vein that never stopp’d,Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d.Till thirty were not left aliveThey dwindled, dwindled, one by one,And I may say that many a timeI wished they all were gone:They dwindled one by one away;For me it was a woeful day. To wicked deeds I was inclined,And wicked fancies cross’d my mind,And every man I chanc’d to see,I thought he knew some ill of meNo peace, no comfort could I find,No ease, within doors or without,And crazily, and wearily,I went my work about.Oft-times I thought to run away;For me it was a woeful day. Sir! ’twas a precious flock to me,As dear as my own children be;For daily with my growing storeI 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 thoughtI loved my children less;And every week, and every day,My flock, it seemed to melt away. They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!From ten to five, from five to three,A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;And then at last, from three to two;And of my fifty, yesterdayI 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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