---

Скачать книгу

---

I should not feel the pain of dying,

       Could I with thee a message send.

       Too soon, my friends, you went away;

       For I had many things to say.

      I’ll follow you across the snow,

       You travel heavily and slow:

       In spite of all my weary pain,

       I’ll look upon your tents again.

       My fire is dead, and snowy white

       The water which beside it stood;

       The wolf has come to me to-night,

       And he has stolen away my food.

       For ever left alone am I,

       Then wherefore should I fear to die?

      My journey will be shortly run,

       I shall not see another sun,

       I cannot lift my limbs to know

       If they have any life or no.

       My poor forsaken child! if I

       For once could have thee close to me,

       With happy heart I then should die,

       And my last thoughts would happy be.

       I feel my body die away,

       I shall not see another day.

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

       Table of Contents

      In distant countries I have 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.

      He saw me, and he turned aside,

       As if he wished himself to hide:

       Then with his coat he made essay

       To 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 rich

       As I could wish to be;

       Of sheep I numbered a full score,

       And every year increas’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 store

       Is all that is alive;

       And now I care not if we die,

       And perish all of poverty.

      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 ask’d relief.

       They said I was a wealthy man;

       My sheep upon the mountain 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?”

      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.

      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 alive

       They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

       And I may say that many a time

       I 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 me.

       No peace, no comfort could I find,

       No ease, within doors or without,

       And crazily, and wearily

       I went my work about.

       Ofttimes 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 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.

      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, 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.

LINES

       Скачать книгу