Run skipfully, or stand ye still;
Feed on, as should ye—pretty sheep,
Until thou deem’st thou’st had thy fill;—
No-one will grudge thee what thou’st ta’en,
For in return thou ’videst us food:
Ah! through the field and narrow lane
Thou’rt hurried to the field of blood.
Thy jackets, shorn, are piled in store,
Or carted to the mart for sale;
Thy wool, O! meek ones (woven o’er),