|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
THE COW CHACE.
Near his meridian pomp, the sun
Had journey'd from the horizon;
When fierce the dusky tribe mov'd on, Of heroes drunk as pison.
The sounds confus'd of boasting oaths, Re-echo'd through the wood;
Some vow'd to sleep in dead men's clothes, And some to swim in blood.
At Irving's nod 'twas fine to see,
The left prepare to fight; The while, the drovers, Wayne and Lee,
Drew off upon the right.
Which Irving 'twas, fame don't relate, Nor can the muse assist her ;
Whether 'twas he that cocks a hat, Or he that gives a clyster