To a 'Tenting' Boy

Early thou goest forth, to put to rout
The thievish rooks, that all about thee sail;
While thy tin tube, and monitory shout
Report thy lonely function to the vale;
From spot to spot thou revest far and near,
While the sick ewe in the next pasture ground
Lifts her white eyelash, points her languid ear,
And turns her pensive face towards the sound;
All day thy little trumpet wails about
The great brown field, and, whilst I slowly climb
The grassy slope, with ready watch drawn out,
To meet thy constant question of the time,
Methinks I owe thee much, my little boy,
For this new duty, and its quiet joy.