Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/203

143 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 asked 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?"