Paul
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A song about a counting shepherd! - 2004/09/28 22:13
Ferreting around on the internet I found the site dedicated to counting sheep (yan etc.), and read a moving war memoir about a shepherd in the trenches who counted to himself in a trance. It inspired (?) me to write this song - see what you think, as Jake would say. (The war memoir appears after the song.)
Paul
You heard the bleating of the lambs in springtime
You saw the bees buzzing over the heather
You felt the summer sun warm lazy bones
Go count, boy, count your sheep
Until your brother calls you home.
You heard the thunder rumble up on the moorside
You saw the lightning flash upon the hills
You felt the wind and cold cut through your bones
Still count, boy, count your sheep
Until your father calls you home.
You heard the rumble of a distant battle
You saw the land rise up from the sea
You felt the desperation in your heart
So count, boy, count your sheep
And pray the country calls you home.
The thunder of the guns across the wasteland
Shells rain down
hell reigns on earth
boots and belts,
helmets flying, boy,
keep on counting, just keep on counting
the choking smoke hangs on the poppies
where are the sheep - are the sheep all safe?
count them all, got to count them all
count, boy, count, till darkness summons…
You hear the bleating of the lambs in springtime
You see the bees buzzing over the heather
You feel the summer sun warm lazy bones
Go count, boy, count your sheep
The Father calls you home.
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From "Ghosts Have Warm Hands", a chilling memoir of trench-warfare in WWI, by Nova Scotian Will R. Bird:
"He was so plastered with mud I could not identify his unit, and he was shaking uncontrollably. Twice I asked him questions but he was too dazed to answer. The shelling was heavy and never let up. Soon the lad snuggled tight against me. I moved over and he followed. Each shell that landed near made him cringe. He kept saying something in a high-pitched voice. I caught him by the shoulder and shook him. "What on earth are you saying?" I asked.
He shook more violently. "I'm a shepherd boy from Hawes," he gasped. "That's the way we count sheep. I can't stop."
It was no use to try and do anything with him. He stayed tight against me, shouting in my ear the count of the shells landing near us. . . . Mickey came slithering over the mud hump between and squeezed tight against my side, his arms and legs twitching convulsively at every near burst.
A shell landed in the trench section on our left, scattering mud over us. A steel helmet struck our parados, then a haversack came hurtling through the air and fell apart at our feet. We gazed stupidly at the contents, a pair of socks, a towel, a toothbrush, a razor and a tin of bully.
The shepherd boy never stopped his count....."
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