POETRY.
SURREY SHEPHERD IN FRANCE.
THERE'S some chaps is goia' to sing, playin' tunes and everything; Whiles I'd like it, but I'm middlin' short o' sleep; I can hear them anywhen in a rest camp full o' men, An' I'd liever bide along o' liddle sheep.
I'll be off along the lane for to count my sheep again, When the butterflies is sleepin' in the hedge; Must be slippy as a Hun, for to get before the sun, An' the dew a-shinin' silver in the sedge.
As I get into the pen, there's the whistle of the men That's a-bringin' up the horses to the. plough.
Hark ! the music of the chain ! Clingin', clangin' up the lane.
'Tis ole Blossom's trampin'—I can hear her now.
Tis a work this day to do, for the wattle's broken through, And the hole would break asunder long fore noon; Here's my lad aside me knows, how the dawn was like a rose, 'Tis a sign as wind an rain's a-comin' soon.
Now the farm begins to rouse—George is callin' in the cows,
And I hear un drive them yonder through the gate; Who's a-callin'? Comin', Sir! No! I wasn't dreamin', Sir, I was fain' up my leaf afore the date. C. M. M. PENNELL.
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