Wandered

The wind blows shrill along the hill,
--Black is the night and cold--
The sky hangs low with its weight of snow,
And the drifts are deep on the wold.
But what care I for wind or snow?
And what care I for the cold?
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

The beasts are safely gathered in,
--Black is the night and cold--
They are snug and warm, and safe from harm,
In stall and byre and fold.
And the dogs and I, by the blazing fire,
Care nought for the snow and the cold.
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

The barns are bursting with their store
Of grain like yellow gold;
A full, fat year has brought good cheer,
--Black is the night and cold.--
But ...    What care I for teeming barns?
And what care I for gold?
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

In the great kitchen, maids and men,
--Black is the night and cold--
Laugh loud and long, with jest and song,
And merry revel hold.
Let them laugh and sing, let them have their fling,
But for me--I am growing old.
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

The old house moans, and sighs and groans,
--Black is the night and cold--
We have seen brave times, you and I, old friend,
But now--we are growing old.
We have stood foursquare to many a storm,
But now--we are growing old.
        Oh ... where is my lamb--
        My one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

Her mother sleeps on the hill out there,
--Black is the night and cold,--
She is free from care, she is happier there,
Beneath the warm brown mould.
And I've sometimes hoped they may have met,
And the end of the tale be told.
        Ah ... where is our lamb--
        Our one ewe lamb--
        That strayed from the fold?

Was that a branch that shed its load?
--Black is the night and cold,--
Or--was it a footstep in the snow--
A timid footstep--halting, slow?
Ah me! I am getting old!
Is that a tapping--soft and low?
Can it be ... I thought I heard ... but no,
'Twas only a branch that shed its snow,--
God's truth! I am getting old!
        For I thought ... maybe
        It was my lamb
        Come home again to the fold.

Dear Lord! a hand at the frozen pane!
--White on the night's black cold--
O my lamb! my lamb! are you come again?
My dear lost lamb, are you come again?
Are you come again to the fold?
It is!... It is!... Now I thank Thee, Lord,
For Thy Mercies manifold!
        She is come again!
        She is home again!
        My lamb that strayed from the fold!

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

E.A., Nov. 6, 1900

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

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William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

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William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Kapiolani

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Pet-Lamb - A Pastoral

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.

Nor sheep nor kine 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 Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.

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The Last Of The Flock

I

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 highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a Lamb he had.

II

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then 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,

III

"When I was young, a single...

William Wordsworth

The Idle Shepherd Boys

The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;
Or through the glittering vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind, or done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river...

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The Fourth Shepherd

(For Thomas Walsh)



    I


On nights like this the huddled sheep
    Are like white clouds upon the grass,
And merry herdsmen guard their sleep
    And chat and watch the big stars pass.

It is a pleasant thing to lie
    Upon the meadow on the hill
With kindly fellowship near by
    Of sheep and men of gentle will.

I lean upon my broken crook
    And dream of sheep and grass and men --
O shameful eyes that cannot look
    On any honest thing again!

On bloody feet I clambered down
    And fled the wages of my sin,
I am the leavings of the town,
    And meanly serve its meanest inn.

I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,
    While sleep takes man and beast to her.
And every cloud is calling ...

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The Stray Lamb. A Grandmother's Story.

We had finished our pitiful morsel,
    And both sat in silence a while;
At length we looked up at each other.
    And I said, with the ghost of a smile, -
"Only two little potatoes
    And a very small crust of bread -
And then?" - "God will care for us, Lucy!"
    John, quietly answering, said.

"Yes, God will provide for us, Lucy!"
    He said, after musing a while -
I'd been quietly watching his features
    With a feeble attempt at a smile -
"For, 'trust in the Lord, and do good,'
    Our Father in Heaven has said,
'So shalt thou dwell in the land,
    And verily thou shalt be fed!'"

Scarcely the words had he spoken,
    When a faint, little tap at the door
Surprised us, - for all the long morning
    The rain had continue...

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Little Bo-Peep

Little Bo-Peep, she has lost her sheep,
    And will not know where to find them;
They are over the height and out of sight,
    Trailing their tails behind them!

Little Bo-Peep woke out of her sleep,
    Jump'd up and set out to find them:
"The silly things! they've got no wings,
    And they've left their trails behind them!

"They've taken their tails, but they've left their trails,
    And so I shall follow and find them!"
For wherever a tail had dragged a trail
    The grass lay bent behind them.

She washed in the brook, and caught up her crook.
    And after her sheep did run
Along the trail that went up the dale
    Across the grass in the sun.

She ran with a will, and she came to a hill
    That went up steep like a spire;

George MacDonald