UP to the bed by the window, where I be lyin',Comes bells and bleat of the flock wi' they two children's clack.Over, from under the eaves there's the starlings flyin',And down in yard, fit to burst his chain, yapping out at Sue I do hear young Mac.
Turning around like a falled-over sackI can see team ploughin' in Whithy-bush field and meal carts startin' up road to Church-Town;Saturday arternoon the men goin' backAnd the women from market, trapin' home over the down.
Heavenly Master, I wud like to wake to they same green placesWhere I be know'd for breakin' dogs and follerin' sheep.And if I may not walk in th' old ways and look on th' old facesI wud sooner sleep.
