FOR CORIN TO-DAY

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.