THERE'S folks that look like other folks, And things germane to other things; There's jokes that jibe with other jokes, And kings as punk as other kings; There's one thing, though, that's plumb unique— Look up that word before you sleep— There never was and never will be Jest such a thing as washing sheep. Of course, the sheep have gone, because, I don't know why—I wish I did— But I'm a-telling how it was When I was jest a Windsor kid; Full records of them tow-head days Inside my memory box I keep— I know there never was or will be Jest such a thing as washing sheep. You first have got to find a brook Right straight beside the road, that makes A deep-hole turn, and then you look For withes and hemlock boards and stakes; With them you build two rough-house yards Each side the brook, jest where it's deep— It takes a lot of work and what not To set the stage for washing sheep. Next day all hands start off at four For Bald Hill pasture; six o'clock Locates you out in Goshen Gore A-shaking salt and hollering "Jock"; At last the flock files through the bars, And 'long the road begins to creep; It's ten or after when you're ready To launderize the lovely sheep. The washer, he's the one that's boss, Stands facing up-stream, like a trout; We boys, we poke the sheep across To Jerdan's strand as they come out; The way they wobble, though, and blat Would make a woolen mill look cheap— No, Sir; there never was or will be Jest sech a thing as washing sheep. That washer stands waist-deep in drink, His frock is torn, his hat is gone; He cannot see or speak or think, But squeezes, scrubs and washes on; He grabs a husky wether's horns, And, as that wether gives a leap, It's hard to tell for half a minute Jest which is man and which is sheep. The days' works helper throws 'em in, And has to lift each lobster twice; He rolls his eyes, unrolls his chin, And strives to be a human vise; He's on his back full half the time And blacker than a chimbly sweep— There's nothing like it, now or never, There's nothing jest like washing sheep. The getting-back-to-pasture part— Is really worst of all: Oh! Lord; We'd pile the "give-outs" on the cart Until we had about a cord; And when they all was back in feed, I'll tell you, but you mustn't peep, Them sheep was dirtier than before— There's nothing, sure, like washing sheep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRESCIENCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SUNSET IN THE DEVIL'S GLEN: COUNTY WICKLOW by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG EASTER (TO A BASE AND TWO TREBLES) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY: BOOK 3 by ANICIUS MANLIUS SEVERINUS BOETHIUS |