Sleep close, my pretty lambs, so warm and white,
The breeze is gentle and the moon is light;
The god of folds, my sheep, your peace ensure,
The hill is vacant and the pen secure.

No nightly prowling thieves the wood invade,
Or midnight monster casts a creeping shade,
Slow round the shadows to the meadow lawn,
And vanish with the purple dusk of dawn.

Now close the sleepy buds upon the tree,
The sleep-infested flowers refuse the bee,
The drowsy beetle winds his native horn,
And loudly bellows through the bursting thorn.

The little river, where my lambkins stray
To watch the timid water-herds at play
With silver prattle in the nodding noon,
Now whispers in its banks a sleepy tune.

The blustering breezes have unlocked the year,
A hundred various hues and dyes appear;
To-day I loitered where the lily blows,
And prickly buds proclaim the nestling rose.

The violet is dim and past her prime,
Already bloom-bells deck the honey thyme;
Now joys at once succeed if these are dumb,
For all the pleasure past there's more to come.

To-morrow, if our guardian heaven approve,
And no stout tempest ruffle in the grove,
I'll lead you where two streams, commingling, meet
And merge their waters in a silver sheet.

There, in the early hope of morning led,
Ere buring Phoebus rises from his bed,
Or blooming hawthorn scatters from the tree,
There you shall wander with my herds and me;

Till from the topmost heaven the heat descends,
And in the topmost heaven the labour ends,
Till evening dons her robe of rosy-gold,
And purple twilight nestles on the fold.

Now sleep, my gentle lambs, Lucina's bright,
The shadows thicken in the lap of Night,
Soon Philomel will weep athwart the thorn,
And noisy-crowing cock salute the morn.

While to my humble cot I low repair,
And greet my younglings with a comely care,
Snatch one short season from the circling day,
And dream the middle noon of night away.

Sleep close, my pretty lambs, so warm and white,
The breeze is gentle and the moon is light;
The god of folds, my sheep, your peace ensure,
The hill is vacant and the pen secure.

No nightly prowling thieves the wood invade,
Or midnight monster casts a creeping shade,
Slow round the shadows to the meadow lawn,
And vanish with the purple dusk of dawn.

Now close the sleepy buds upon the tree,
The flowers yield no more sweetness to the bee,
The drowsy beetle winds his native horn,
And loudly bellows through the bursting thorn.

The blustering breezes have unlocked the year,
A hundred various hues and dyes appear;
To-day I loitered where the lily blows,
And prickly buds proclaim the nestling rose.

To-morrow, if our guardian heaven approve,
And no stout tempest ruffle in the grove,
Where blooming hawthorn scatters from the tree,
There you shall wander with my herds and me,

While from the topmost height the heat descends,
And o'er the pool the gentle lily bends,
Till Evening dons her robe of rosy-gold, And purple twilight nestles o'er her fold.