THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

Composed 1798.

I.

Published 1798.

IN distant countries have I been,
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 :
And with his coat did then essay
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 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 a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
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 ;
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,
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.

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.

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.

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."

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,

The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days, he little cared

For husbandry or tillage;

To blither tasks did Simon rouse

The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the chase was done,

He reeled, and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out
He dearly loves their voices !

But, oh the heavy change!-bereft

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty.

His Master's dead,-and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

He has no son, he has no child,

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,

"Tis little, very little—all

That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,