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THE SAD SHEPHERD
33
There's nothing of him left but half a score
Of sorrowful, austere, sweet, lofty pipe tunes.
Goatherd
You have put the thought in rhyme.
Shepherd
I worked all day
And when 'twas done so little had I done
That maybe 'I am sorry' in plain prose
Had sounded better to your mountain fancy
[He sings.
'Like the speckled bird that steers
Thousands of leagues oversea,
And runs or a while half-flies
Upon his yellow legs through our meadows,
