Sundry Pieces: The Shep’erd Bwoy
When the warm zummer breeze do blow over the hill,
An’ the vlock’s a-spread over the ground;
When the vaice o’ the busy wold sheep dog is still,
An’ the sheep-bells do tinkle all round;
Where noo tree vor a sheaede but the thorn is a-vound,
There, a zingen a zong,
Or a-whislen among
The sheep, the young shep’erd do bide all day long.
When the storm do come up wi’ a thundery cloud
That do shut out the zunlight, an’ high
Over head the wild thunder do rumble so loud,
An’ the lightnen do flash vrom the sky,
Where noo shelter’s a-vound but his hut, that is nigh,
There out ov all harm,
In the dry an’ the warm,
The poor little shep’erd do smile at the storm.
When the cwold winter win’ do blow over the hill,
An’ the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An’ the breath o’ the no’th is so cwold, as to chill
The warm blood ov woone’s heart as do pass;
When the ice o’ the pond is so slipp’ry as glass,
There, a-zingen a zong,
Or a-whislen among
The sheep, the poor shep’erd do bide all day long.
When the shearen’s a-come, an’ the shearers do pull
In the sheep, hangen back a-gwain in,
Wi’ their roun’ zides a-heaven in under their wool,
To come out all a-clipp’d to the skin;
When the feaesten, an’ zingen, an fun do begin,
Vor to help em, an’ sheaere
All their me’th an’ good feaere,
The poor little shep’erd is sure to be there.
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