# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/The last of the Flock

XIII.
LAST OF THE FLOCK.
In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy Man, a Man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone. But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad high-way, I met; Along the broad high-way he came, His cheeks with tears were wet. Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had.
​He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: Then with his coat he made essay To wipe those briny tears away. I followed him, and said, "My Friend, What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" —"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock.
When I was young, a single Man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, a Ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increased my store.
​Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single Ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As sweet a flock as ever grazed! Upon the mountain did they feed, They throve, and we at home did thrive. —This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.
Six Children, Sir! had I to feed; Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish asked relief. They said I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the mountain fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread." "Do this: how can we give to you," They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
​I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me—it never did me good. A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away! For me it was a woeful day.
Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopp'd— Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd. Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone: They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day.
​To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies crossed my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me. No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease, within doors or without; And crazily, and wearily, I went my work about. Oft-times I thought to run away; For me it was a woeful day.
Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own Children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my Children more and more. Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress; I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my Children less; And every week, and every day, My flock, it seemed to melt away.
​They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;— And then at last, from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none;— To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock."