  Old shepherd in your wattle cote, I think a thousand years are done Since first you took your pipe of oat And piped against the risen sun, Until his burning lips of gold Sucked up the drifting scarves of dew And bade you count your flocks from fold And set your hurdle stakes anew. And then as now at noon you ’ld take The shadow of delightful trees, And with good hands of labour break Your barley bread with dairy cheese, And with some lusty shepherd mate Would wind a simple argument, And bear at night beyond your gate A loaded wallet of content. O Corin of the grizzled eye, A thousand years upon your down You’ve seen the ploughing teams go by Above the bells of Avon’s town; And while there’s any wind to blow Through frozen February nights, About your lambing pens will go The glimmer of your lanthorn lights. |
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