When I was last there a shepherd had just accomplished the feat of getting his flock of down sheep through the gate, and as they raced
along in a big bunch after the manner of their kind, with bells tinkling, and tearing eagerly at this fresh sample of pasture that grew in
the moat, he was taking a well-earned leisure on the bank, his coat and crook and dog beside him, and in sociable mood.
"Yes, zur, it's a turr'ble big mound, vor zart'n. A nashun sight of volks come yer to look at'n; I doan't take much notice of her myself,
but I've heerd my feyther tell as they druv a hole into her innards onc't, an' vound zummat or awther."
(Round about Wiltshire. A. G. Bradley 1907)