The Winter Droving 2014

Old Molly Metcalfe counting sheep,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
Up upon Swaledale, steep and bleak,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

Grow, little sheep, come hail, come snow,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
Fine warm wool for a gentleman’s shoulder blades,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

Over the heather when the weather is cold,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
Stiff Molly Metcalfe goes bow-leggedly,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

Grow, little sheep, come wind, come rain,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
Fine warm wool for a lady’s counterpane,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

On her back in the bracken with frozen bones,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
Daft Molly Metcalfe singing alone,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

Grow, little sheep, come death, come dark,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she counted.
No such wool for Old Molly Metcalfe,
Yan tan tether mether pip, she said.

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