  How welcome ’tis to human eye To see the mead-lands gay with sheep: How homely is the lambkin’s cry, How sweet to see them run and leap. Look, whilst unheeded falls the show’r, How nimbly each one nips the blade; And, as the rain-drops trickle o’er Them, how intent they mind their trade. Their life-time’s short, but sweet content Ne’er fails them: on and on they pass, And as they wander innocent- Ly yield, and aid the growing grass. When Dame Aurora steeps the main With her resistless flood of light, They’re up, and at their trade again, And nibble, nibbling till ’tis night. But when a storm is gathering fast, See how they’ll seek some shelter’d cove; How cunningly they’ll shun the blast, Beneath a hazel-hedge, or grove. When down at night they gently lie, Unconscious where the light hath flown, It may be plann’d for all to die Before the morrow’s afternoon. ’Tis so!—a sound doth ’lectrify The timid throng: they congregate; And, as th’ intruder they espy, Seem apprehensive of their fate. Away unto some nook they run, Or to the angle of the field; The shepherd marks them one by one, And one by one they have to yield. (Perchance it is the month of May): Their shornÈd quarters fat and fleet Are needed in some other way,— Are soon, alas! transform’d to meat. O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink, For on to-morrow you must fall: ’Tis good thou hast no thought to think; Were ’t so thy life-time would be gall. Suppose it’s March: the fields The hunter’s horn rides on the gale; And suddenly a fox, or hare, Comes bounding over hedge or pale, Then see them how they’ll gather round, As though some dreadful foe was near; And mark, when forth the foremost hound Comes yelping onward, how they fear; And stand aghast-like—stark and still— Until the yelpers have flown past, Until the hunters cross the hill, And then again seek their repast. (Now when the distant sportsmen see The nervous flock haste to the fence, ’Tis known to them with accuracy The prey hath cross’d, or crossing thence.) Ah! little think they (but ’tis true) That, as they heed the fleeting throng, Those hunters’ coats, red, green, or blue, Have from such backs as theirs been flung. Turn, reader, from the blithesome chase To where the staggering thrust is dealt; Behold the death-stains on the face, And see what gory blood is spilt: Conceive, what thousands in a day Reel at the shock which lays them low; That as they hang, as cold as clay, Ten thousand more receive the blow! All pity’s fled, when (at the fire,) Leg, loin, or shoulder’s on the spit, To grace the table of the squire— Surrounded by things amply fit. Where they were born, or how they live, On what they feed, or how they die, Or how the little creatures grieve When on the butcher’s block they lie. Ne’er strikes th’ attention of the guest, Host, hostess, scull’ry-maid, nor cook; It’s—whether it be rightly drest, And whether “paid,” or on the book. O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink, For on to-morrow you must fall: ’Tis good thou hast no thought to think; Were ’t so, thy lifetime would be gall. Trip on, lie down and go to sleep, Run skipfully, or stand ye still; Feed on, as should ye—pretty sheep, Until thou deem’st thou’st had thy fill;— No-one will grudge thee what thou’st ta’en, For in return thou ’videst us food: Ah! through the field and narrow lane Thou’rt hurried to the field of blood. Thy jackets, shorn, are piled in store, Or carted to the mart for sale; Thy wool, O! meek ones (woven o’er), Adorns the hearth, flaunts in the gale. In every land, on every sea, Where commerce traverses the globe,— ’Tis knit in garb’s simplicity; Knit in the monarch’s choicest robe; Knit in the infant’s swaddling clothes; Knit in the mother’s “jaconet;”— In colours various as the rose, As various as the violet, Promiscuous ’sturchion, and (methinks) Still further—the chrysanthemum, Punctilious dahlia, hornÈd pinks, The rose-like poppy in full bloom. |
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