How delightful to see
In those evenings of spring
When the sheep are a-going to the fold,
The master do sing
As he goes on his way
And the dog goes before them 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;
It's the best of all food,
For their flesh it is good,
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 we all goes away,
I'm afraid 'twill be past twelve o'clock.