The poem known as the Pastoral
gives a picture of the life of the simple shepherds of the
golden age, who are supposed to have beguiled their time in
singing. In all pastorals, repeated allusions are made to the
"fleecy flocks," the "milk-white lambs," and "the tender ewes;"
indeed, the sheep occupy a position in these poems inferior only
to that of the shepherds who tend them. The "nibbling sheep" has
ever been a favourite of the poets, and has supplied them with
figures and similes without end. Shakspere frequently compares
men to sheep. When Gloster rudely drives the lieutenant from the
side of Henry VI., the poor king thus touchingly speaks of his
helplessness;--

"So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf:
So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece,
And next his throat, unto the butcher's knife."

In the "Two Gentlemen of Verona," we meet with the following
humorous comparison:--

"_Proteus_. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the
shepherd for food follows not the sheep: thou for wages
followest thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee;
therefore, thou art a sheep.

"_Speed_. Such another proof will make me cry _baa_."

The descriptive poets give us some charming pictures of sheep.
Every one is familiar with the sheep-shearing scene in Thomson's
"Seasons:"--

"Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread
Their dwelling treasures to the sunny ray,
Inly disturb'd, and wond'ring what this wild
Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints
The country fill; and, toss'd from rock to rock,
Incessant bleatings run around the hills."

What an exquisite idea of stillness is conveyed in the
oft-quoted line from Gray's "Elegy:"--

"And drowsy tinklings lull the distant fold."

From Dyer's quaint poem of "The Fleece" we could cull a hundred
passages relating to sheep; but we have already exceeded our
space. We cannot, however, close this brief notice of the
allusions that have been made to sheep by our poets, without
quoting a couple of verses from Robert Burns's "Elegy on Poor
Mailie," his only "pet _yowe_:"--

"Thro' a' the town she troll'd by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him.