The Idle Shepherd Boys
The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind---or done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
'Down to the stump of yon old yew
We'll for our whistles run a race.'
Away the shepherds flew;
They leapt---they ran---and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should lose the prize,
'Stop! ' to his comrade Walter cries---
James stopped with no good will:
Said Walter then, exulting; 'Here
You'll find a task for half a year.
Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross---
Come on, and tread where I shall tread.'
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poem by William Wordsworth
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