How delightful to see
In the evenings in spring,
The sheep going home to the fold.
The master does sing
As he views everything
And his dog goes before him when told.

The sixth month of the year,
In the month called June,
When the weather's too hot
to be borne,
The master doth say
As he goes on his way,
Tomorrow my sheep shall be shorn.

Now as for those sheep,
They're delightful to see,
They're a blessing to man on his farm.
For their flesh, it is good,
It's the best of all food.
And the wool it will clothe us up warm.

Now the sheep they're all shorn,
And the wool carried home.
Here's a health to our master and flock.
And if we should stay
Till the last goes away,
I'm afraid twill be past twelve o'clock.