The sheep are down at the water, a-drinkin' their bloomin' fill,
An' me and the dog are dozin', as herders and collies will;
The world may be movin' somewheres, but here it is standin' still.
It is standin' still as a picter, and even the clouds o'erhead
Look just like the clouds that are painted on the roof of a sky-blue shed.
And it seems if, to fill the picter, us and the sheep should be dead.
It's hard to think that in cities there's men who are goin' to mad,
Each strivin' to beat his fellows and get what the others had;
And from this here peaceful viewpoint, such doin's look bad, plum bad.