The Last of the Flock

The Last of the Flock
By William Wordsworth

  In distant countries I have been,
 And yet I have not often seen
 A healthy man, a man full grown,
 Weep in the public roads alone.
 But such a one, on English ground,
 And in the broad high-way, I met;
 Along the broad high-way he came,
 His cheeks with tears were wet.
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
 And in his arms a lamb he had.
  He saw me, and he turned aside,
 As if he wished himself to hide:
 Then with his coat he made essay
 To wipe those briny tears away.
 I follow'd him, and said, "My friend
 What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
 --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
 He makes my tears to flow.
 To-day I fetched him from the rock;
 He is the last of all my flock."
  When I was young, a single man,
 And after youthful follies ran.
 Though little given to care and thought,
 Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;
 And other sheep from her I raised,
 As healthy sheep as you might see,
 And then I married, and was rich
 As I could wish to be;
 Of sheep I numbered a full score,
 And every year increas'd my store.
  Year after year my stock it grew,
 And from this one, this single ewe,
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
 As sweet a flock as ever grazed!
 Upon the mountain did they feed;
 They throve, and we at home did thrive.
 --This lusty lamb of all my store
 Is all that is alive;
 And now I care not if we die,
 And perish all of poverty.
  Six children, Sir! had I to feed,
 Hard labour in a time of need!
 My pride was tamed, and in our grief,
 I of the parish ask'd relief.
 They said I was a wealthy man;
 My sheep upon the mountain fed,
 And it was fit that thence I took
 Whereof to buy us bread:
 "Do this; how can we give to you,"
 They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
  I sold a sheep as they had said,
 And bought my little children bread,
 And they were healthy with their food;
 For me it never did me good.
 A woeful time it was for me,
 To see the end of all my gains,
 The pretty flock which I had reared
 With all my care and pains,
 To see it melt like snow away!
 For me it was a woeful day.
  Another still! and still another!
 A little lamb, and then its mother!
 It was a vein that never stopp'd,
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
 Till thirty were not left alive
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
 And I may say that many a time
 I wished they all were gone:
 They dwindled one by one away;
 For me it was a woeful day.
  To wicked deeds I was inclined,
 And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,
 And every man I chanc'd to see,
 I thought he knew some ill of me.
 No peace, no comfort could I find,
 No ease, within doors or without,
 And crazily, and wearily
 I went my work about.
 Oft-times I thought to run away;
 For me it was a woeful day.
  Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
 As dear as my own children be;
 For daily with my growing store
 I loved my children more and more.
 Alas! it was an evil time;
 God cursed me in my sore distress,
 I prayed, yet every day I thought
 I loved my children less;
 And every week, and every day,
 My flock, it seemed to melt away.
  They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see!
 From ten to five, from five to three,
 A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
 And then at last, from three to two;
 And of my fifty, yesterday
 I had but only one,
 And here it lies upon my arm,
 Alas! and I have none;
 To-day I fetched it from the rock;
 It is the last of all my flock.

Wordsworth seems to be pointing to a proto-workaholicism in this poem. However, instead of sweaty middle managers, his subject is the pastoral shepherd. In Wordsworth's day, at the peak of romanticism in England, shepherds were revered and idolized. City-dwellers imagined they lived an idyllic life out in the country, living incredibly close to nature. Most pastoral art shows shepherds lounging about their sheep in green pastures. This 18th century painting by Nicolas Poussin gives us a glimpse as to how intellectuals and romantics viewed the lives of shepherds:

As wonderful as this all seems, it is all a romantic fabrication. Being a shepherd can really suck. You are subject to the elements and totally dependent on the health of your sheep for a living. Why didn't all the romantics run from the cities and enjoy the "pastoral" life? There is definitely a reason. Life on the pastures looks appealing, but it is obvious that there is a lot of hard work involved.

Wordsworth is getting at this idea through the poem. In it, he breaks down the idyllic idea of a shepherd. Instead, the romantic shepherd is a broken, poor old man crying in the middle of the street. It is a very different view from the painting above. And the man doesn't even seem very venerable either. As the poem goes on, we learn that maybe the guy likes his sheep more than his own family. It is a specific twist on the romantic's notion of pastoral life.

The poem is an attack on certain socio-political movements of the time. First, as mentioned above, it tears apart the Romantic pastoral ideal. The poem shows that shepherding life is not easy; there is a ton of work involved. Second, the poem presents the plight of the real-life shepherd. During the 18th and 19th Centuries, the common land in Britain was abolished, and most land became private property. Prior to this, shepherds could graze their sheep on common land that was open to everyone. After the re-organization of the communities, it became impossible to be a shepherd unless you were rich enough to own a sizable amount of land. This was a huge social problem of the day, and we witness this issue in the poem. As life becomes harder and harder for the shepherd, his family suffers. Not only fiscally, but the shepherd actually starts to despise those mouths he has to feed. Although this is hardly a sympathic response, it is definitely understandable. Even today we can see how stressful jobs can tear families apart. So although it just describes an everyday occurance, this poem is clearly about social justice.

Wordsworth is railing against the cultural and political changes that were killing the livlihoods of a whole sector of society. Shepherding had been around for millenia, and now it was slowly dieing out. But at the same time, city-dwellers were almost coveting the shepherd's life. Wordsworth is pointing out the hypocrisy of idealizing a group of people while not trying to help actual humans.

--Barry