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474 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Your limbs they were plump then—your coat it was
silk, And never was wanted the mether of milk; For freely it came in the calm summer's noon, While you munched to the time of the old milking
croon.
How often you left the green side of the hill, To stretch in the shade and to drink of the rill! And often I freed you before the gray dawn From your snug little pen at the edge of the bawn. |
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But they racked and they ground me with tax and
with rent Till my heart it was sore and my life-blood was spent: To-day they have finished, and on the wide world With the mocking of fiends from my home I was
hurled. |
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I knelt down three times for to utter a prayer,
But my heart it was seared, and the words were not
there; Oh ! wild were the thoughts through my dizzy head
came, Like the rushing of wind through a forest of flame. |
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I bid you, old comrade, a long last farewell;
For the gaunt hand of famine has clutched us too
well; It severed the master and you, my good cow, With a blight on his life and a brand on his brow. |
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