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196
THE SHEPHERD AND THE HIRELING.
A MONKISH DOGGREL.
Who keepeth his sheep in the wattled fold?
A wise man godly, merry, and old.
His own is the flock and he loves it well,
As the grey wolves under the forest can tell;
When a rough one comes he stands very fast,
With his staff and his hounds and his stones to cast,
For his sheep, safe sheep!
A wise man godly, merry, and old.
His own is the flock and he loves it well,
As the grey wolves under the forest can tell;
When a rough one comes he stands very fast,
With his staff and his hounds and his stones to cast,
For his sheep, safe sheep!
Who foldeth his sheep on the hill that is red?
A sleepy, hireling fellow instead.
His sheep are another's; he caroth none
Tho' the wolves are rending them one by one.
When the grey beast comes, he fleeth away
Down the hill like a feather; ah, well-a-day
For his sheep, poor sheep!
A sleepy, hireling fellow instead.
His sheep are another's; he caroth none
Tho' the wolves are rending them one by one.
When the grey beast comes, he fleeth away
Down the hill like a feather; ah, well-a-day
For his sheep, poor sheep!
197
Who tethers our flock in the Church her yard?
A merry good saint who is honest and hard.
His sheep know the Bishop, he knows his sheep,
So, when a lean heretic tries to creep,
He raises his crook and his gold hoop-ring
And scares him away, while the choristers sing
For their souls, safe souls.
A merry good saint who is honest and hard.
His sheep know the Bishop, he knows his sheep,
So, when a lean heretic tries to creep,
He raises his crook and his gold hoop-ring
And scares him away, while the choristers sing
For their souls, safe souls.
Who foldeth his swine in the city of sin?
The bloat brown Satan burning within.
He pushes on each to his trough with a prong
And away to perdition goads them along.
When an angel hovers, he shouts him away
And gathers them muck till the judgment day.
Well-a-day, poor souls.
The bloat brown Satan burning within.
He pushes on each to his trough with a prong
And away to perdition goads them along.
When an angel hovers, he shouts him away
And gathers them muck till the judgment day.
Well-a-day, poor souls.
He pastures them well in a forest tall,
And beats on the boughs till the acorns fall;
In each of their snouts he rivets his ring,
And drags them in where the old nettles sting;
On each of their withers right plain to see
He brands them deep with a gothic D,
Poor swine, poor souls!
And beats on the boughs till the acorns fall;
In each of their snouts he rivets his ring,
And drags them in where the old nettles sting;
On each of their withers right plain to see
He brands them deep with a gothic D,
Poor swine, poor souls!
198
Now sing we together for souls, and sheep
Who sit on the hills where the night lies deep.
May they gain a good grass that is sweet to feast,
And never be scared by a prowling beast.
This is my carol, God help us, Sirs,
And keep you each clean of such evil curs;
In æternum, Amen.
Who sit on the hills where the night lies deep.
May they gain a good grass that is sweet to feast,
And never be scared by a prowling beast.
This is my carol, God help us, Sirs,
And keep you each clean of such evil curs;
In æternum, Amen.
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