You are losing your sheep, like poor little Bo-Peep,
And still that old horn lies unblown, boy.
You're letting them roam, and they will not "come home"
If you do nought but "let them alone," boy!
Still drowsing! Oh, drat it! Young Primrose is at it
Without half your power of bellows.
And cynics are hinting that, while he is sprinting,
You're lazy—because you feel jealous.
Of course, that's all footle. Still, your rootle-tootle
Is wanted our courage to toughen.