The Skyes

"Hallo Dusty! Hallo Grizel!Fetch the sheep" the master cries,"Fetch them from the Island pastureQuick, before the daylight dies!"

Hurling headlong down the meadow,Almost swimming through the grass,Dusty-foot and gray GrizeldaLike a hurricane they pass.

Neck and neck the water reaching,In they plunge with shrieks of joy;Every task a new-found pastime,All the world their daily toy.

See them cleave the sunset ripplesHeading each a widening way,Landing, shake their eager bodiesIn a mist of diamond spray.

Silent now with great endeavour,Working round their fleecy charge,All the silly sheep collectingTo the gently shelving marge.

Hitherward with careful guidingComes the convoy safe to land—Dusty-foot and gray GrizeldaFlopping, panting on the strand.

"Collies? Aye, they're surely clever,Faithful too, and wondrous wise;But for all that," says the master,"Give me still my little Skyes."