In March, by popular opinion,
The island has sunk a foot!
The water's lying everywhere
Or there's acres of black mud.
Never mind, the clocks change now
To "British Summer Time"
Aye, that's a joke but anyhow
It'll soon be lambing time.

April comes along again
The weather, it gets worse.
The first week we look for sun in vain,
The lambs we need to nurse.
This is the Blackface ewe's prime time
To further its ambition:
To have twin lambs at half-past nine,
And be dead at ten to eleven

In May I must admit
The weather is sublime
The island looks at its best
And there's the end of lambing time.
Perhaps it's been a good one,
Perhaps you're not too sure.
You say you'll never lamb again
But you will, of course. . next year

June is hectic on the farm
The Lambs are marked an counted
The hoggs are clipped, they're getting
warm,
The big old dog is foundered.
He's getting lazier every year,
It's time he was out to grass.
but I'll have just one word in his ear,
or kick him up his ...