The poor little shep'erd do smile at the storm.
When the cwold winter win' do blow over the hill,
An' the hore-vrost do whiten the grass,
An' the breath o' the no'th is so cwold, as to chill
The warm blood ov woone's heart as do pass;
When the ice o' the pond is so slipp'ry as glass,
There, a-zingèn a zong,
Or a-whislèn among
The sheep, the poor shep'erd do bide all day long.
When the shearèn's a-come, an' the shearers do pull