Down, down the quiet valley,
Where skies are always blue,
and rivers rush over pebbles
and birds sing all day long,
lived a young, ruddy shepherd
who knew the forest
and made friends with her dwellers.
His voice was kind, so were his hands.
He believed in fairy tales and angels
and having it all figured out in mind –
he lived in his imagination.

‘Dreams come true, so do wishes,’
he fondly recalls his mother’s words.
The young shepherd waits for his flock,
blessing the galaxies and the moon
that light his lonely home and night
brought him more than great joy.

From the hills, melodies from Thanksgiving
reach him, so he listens so as not to miss them.
Soft breezes carry dulcet hymns,
the misty feel of the half moonshine
nudging images in the ice-cold night—
dreams he had, dreams he craves.

That’s the lore sung down the valley
in inns, homes where country roads ply.

That’s his lore sung down the valley, in inns and homes along country roads.