Seven shepherds herd their sheep

Down seven sleepy stubble fields.

Seven angels stand and weep

And say, “How small the harvest-yields!”

Seven greybeards prate of tillage

Round the ingle of the inn:

Seven call our age an ill age,

Seven wave their mugs and sing.

And all the signboards of our village

Creak as they swing.

But the seven stars above our village

Twinkle and spin.