Count, count, count!
Till I’ve counted my master’s stock;
Ewes, and wethers, and lambs,
Lambs, and wethers, and ewes,
Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed,
And my shins are all in a bruise.
Snip! Snip! Snip!
When the shearing season’s come,
And snip, snip, snip!
But never a keg of rum!