Maid to Measure
The old man in Wellington boots
With heavy clod under the sole,
And an old dog called Shep
Across the fields they’d patrol.
Across the field they would go
To round up the sheep on the hill
And bring them down the track
To count them when standing still.
Week in, week out, the story is the same
They’d march right up that hill
And march the sheep back down again
With old Shep doing his masters will.
Till yonder maid came with her goats
All alone in the next field,
And an old man with a spring in his step
Did stoop to this maid and yield.
He lost count of his sheep, so the story goes,
They would gather on the hill in a huddle,
As the old man chatted to the maid
And his counting got in a muddle.
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Comments about this poem (Maid to Measure by David Wood )
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