The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said, Drink, pretty creature,
drink!
And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain Lamb with a maiden at its
side.

No other sheep were near; the Lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden
kneel,
While to that mountain Lamb she gave its evening
meal.

The Lamb, while from her hand he thus his
supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail
with pleasure shook.
Drink, pretty creature, drink, she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.

’Twas little Barbara Lethwaite, a child of beauty
rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely
pair:
Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she
stay.

Towards the Lamb she looked; and from that
shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face;
If nature to her tongue could measured numbers
bring,
Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little maid
might sing!

What ails thee, young one? what? why pull so at
thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and
board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass
can be;
Rest, little young one, rest; what is’t that aileth
thee?

What is it thou wouldst seek? what is wanting to
thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful
thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they
have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen
chain;
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst
gain!

For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st
not fear;
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can
come here.

Rest little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned
by none,
And thy mother from thy side forevermore was
gone.

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee
home!
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee
yearn
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have
been.

Thou knowest that twice a day I brought thee in
this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever
ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with
dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and
new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they
are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the
plough;

My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is
cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy
fold.

It will not, will not rest! poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in
thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see
nor hear.

Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and
fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come
there:

The little brooks that seem all pastime and at play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard
by.
Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep and at break of day I will come to thee
again.

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy
feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was
mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
Nay, said I, more than half to the damsel must
belong;
For she looked with such a look, and she spake
with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.