The Sheepdog

Let me take her to the mountain way;
For there she may recall the day,
When times were new and she was fair.
Running through fern and dewy air.

Yet once I did recall  a dream,
When she lipped water from a stream.
In times of rounding of the ewe,
Her eyes would stray to fields anew.

Now she list’s not to the sound,
Of stoat or hare on stubbled  ground.
For she is of the haggard brow,
And time is ebbing from her now.

She journeys slow with painful gait,
Till ere one day will come her fate.
When she will take no more such thrills,
And live beneath these rugged hills.