A Cow and A Goat
There was a verdant pasture somewhere
Whose land was the very picture of beauty
How can the beauty of that elegance be described
Brooks of sparkling water were running on every side
Many were the pomegranate trees
And so were the shady peepul trees
Cool breeze flowed everywhere
Birds were singing everywhere
A goat arrived at a brook's bank from somewhere
It came browsing from somewhere in the nearby land
As she stopped and looked around
She noticed a cow standing by
The goat first presented her compliments to the cow
Then respectfully started this conversation
'How are you! Madam Cow'?
The cow replied, 'Not too well
'My life is a mere existence
My life is a complete agony
My life is in danger, what can I say?
My luck is bad, what can I say?
I am surprised at the state of affairs
I am cursing the evil people
The poor ones like us are powerless
Misfortunes surround the ones like us
None should nicely deal with Man
May God protect us from Man!
He murmurs if my milk declines
He sells me if my weight declines
He subdues us with cleverness!
Alluring, he always subjugates us!
I nurse his children with milk
I give them new life with milk
My goodness is repaid with evil
My prayer to God is for mercy! '
Having heard the cow's story like this
The goat replied, 'This complaint is unjust
Though truth is always bitter
I shall speak what is fair
This pasture, and this cool breeze
This green grass and this shade
Such comforts, were beyond our lot!
They were a far cry for us speechless poor!
We owe these pleasures to Man
We owe all our happiness to Man
We derive all our prosperity from him
What is better for us, freedom or bondage to him?
Hundreds of dangers lurk in the wilderness
May God protect us from the wilderness!
We are heavily indebted to him
Unjust is our complaint against him
If you appreciate the life's comforts
You would never complain against Man'
Hearing all this the cow felt embarrassed
She was sorry for complaining against Man
She mused over the good and the bad
And thoughtfully she said this
'Small though is the body of the goat
Convincing is the advice of the goat! '
poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Goat Hill
Goat Hill
Walking out the door that man told me to go to hell
My son asked mommy where’s Goat Hill
I said I don’t know son it must be through the valley
My son said mommy lets go there
Up to goat hill
I bet it’s on top of the mountain
I bet there is waterfalls, birds, trees, pretty flowers for all the butterflies and honey bees
I said son if we could I’m sure we would
Most definitely go up to goat hill
I’m not ever going to take you where that man said to go
That place is an internal melting pot
And its way to hot
There’s no mountains with snow on top
No waterfalls trees birds butterflies or honey bees in the place that man said to go
Son I know you are good
Some day together I believe we will find the place called Goat Hill
You found somewhere in your mind
Where life is gentle and Kind
Everyday and every night all the time
Son I bet up on Goat Hill we will only see Gods will being done by the Father and the Son
poem by E.Marie AldrichCreasy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What for? If only the goat can tell.
O! The silly goat could have been a dove
White and meek
Soundless in the journey to air
Dove to another dove
Satisfied from among its likes
The horns could have been feathers
In a bird’s body
Another completing dove could have waited
Only if the silly goat knew
The transfiguration of its feet to claw
Its whiskers to beak
The goat’s life would have been complete
And fulfilled
But this the silly goat will never know
& learn and untie
& solve the crazy knot
That it has never untangled
Never has he learned from all the ages
Of his grass life
The seeds that the dove peck
And keep on its throat down to its guts
Its tummy
The goat stays
In the open field
Preoccupied with grass
And grass alone
Abiding by the rules of his master
Imprisoned in its cage
To the rules of their games
Suffering
But never understands the same
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do not try to cook the goat's young in the goat's milk.
The Coolun
Come with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat,
Or wine, if it be thy will;
And we will talk until
Talk is a truble, too,
Out in the side of the hill,
And nothing is left to do,
But an eye to look into an eye
And a hand in a hand to slip,
And a sigh to answer a sigh,
And a lip to find out a lip:
What if the night be black
And the air on the mountain chill,
Where the goat lies down in her track
And all but the fern is still!
Stay with me under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat
Out on the side of the hill.
poem by James Stephens
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Christmas Day At The Bunkhouse (Fun Poem 47)
It was Christmas day at the bunkhouse
everyone had sat down for a meal
when through the door walked a goat.
He stood and looked around,
then continued to eat an artichoke.
When he finished he sat and asked for a drink,
someone got up and gave him a bowel of water.
The goat looked at the offering with disgust.
Ain’t you got anything stronger that that?
Of course, we have, came the reply.
Well pour me out some the goats said,
and put some mud in my eye.
Someone had some scotch whiskey
and took the bottle out,
then gave the goat a dram.
The goat sniffed it, and then downed it
all in one swallow.
He then asked for more
saying his legs were still hollow.
Another dram was poured
and everyone was amazed to see,
an upside down goat
drinking a bottle of scotch whiskey.
The goat drank all day
and it drank all night.
The lights went out
and the old goat went to sleep.
He dreamed of himself
floating out the door
and all the way to heaven,
but when he got there,
St Peter wouldn’t let him in.
He said God will not tolerate
any drunken old goats here,
so you had better go back
and sleep it off, Billy.
Then put up a sign on the door.
No drunken old goats allowed,
signed by you know who.
You could always try
beneath the basement floor
he’ll greet you with a smile
and a shovel,
even make you hot and warm.
The moral of this story
whether you’re a goat or a man.
Don’t drink too much;
you could end up
jumping from the frying pan
and straight into the fire,
the one that they keep burning
permanently beneath the basement floor.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Goat
Lots of goat for dinner
Is all had on a skewer,
My kingdom has survived,
The lids of your eyes
Are lifted and they see
The meat of the kings
In consumption.
Force the goat to be eaten
By converting the king
To your crevice.
Food has might,
Food is the whim of our land.
We ghosts are relaxed tonight,
From the worry of the horror,
Frightened again by the double,
Load the goat into the pot and eat.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The biggest mistake
With the palyful gait of a chid,
i was playing with my friends,
in the rocky hill and sand,
With all might i was playing the game.
All were busy pushing, pulling, running,
I too was doing the same,
but my attention was driven away from the game,
The sight of a playful goat was alluring me away.
The sight of the shiny black goat,
made me thought to chase and play with it,
But the goat was not ready to do the same,
so i was running fast to chase.
Its unwillingness to play with me,
was making me crazy to play,
So i was running with a frenzy,
to catch it with all my might.
I didnt realise what my chase may lead to,
my mind was filled with the only thought of catching it,
and running away from my mad chase,
It met its death inside a well.
Till date and every date of my life,
I regret and will always do so,
till the end of my life for my mad chase,
My mad chase leading to an innocent death!
poem by Winnie Angel
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Holiday meals
Here's a poem that will get your goat
But my goat ate my poem.
I'll get him for that
He ate all that i wrote.
I wrote such wounderous words
And all he does is burp
It's absurd.
Now all I can do
Is not let him get my goat
The words that I wrote
Were hastey and few
The goat that I had made such a great stew.
In Your Dwelling Place
Substance,
Elements,
Dwelling places;
Do not be afraid when someone becomes rich!
For he or she will take nothing away when he or she dies.
Adopt, adapt, approved!
From the rising of the sun to its going down,
And like the perfect beauty in the land of your muse;
But a he-goat and a she-goat are now seen in your dwelling places.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Are Always With Me
One young goat,
One fat cow,
For, you are always with me!
And, all that i have are reserved for you.
One fat goat,
One young cow,
But, try to humble yourselves in this life;
And serve one another in peace,
For, you are always with me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Billy-Goat Overland
Come all ye lads of the droving days, ye gentlemen unafraid,
I'll tell you all of the greatest trip that ever a drover made,
For we rolled our swags, and we packed our bags, and taking our lives in hand,
We started away with a thousand goats, on the billy-goat overland.
There wasn't a fence that'd hold the mob, or keep 'em from their desires;
They skipped along the top of the posts and cake-walked on the wires.
And where the lanes had been stripped of grass and the paddocks were nice and green,
The goats they travelled outside the lanes and we rode in between.
The squatters started to drive them back, but that was no good at all,
Their horses ran for the lick of their lives from the scent that was like a wall:
And never a dog had pluck or gall in front of the mob to stand
And face the charge of a thousand goats on the billy-goat overland.
We found we were hundreds over strength when we counted out the mob;
And they put us in jail for a crowd of theives that travelled to steal and rob:
For every goat between here and Bourke, when he scented our spicy band,
Had left his home and his work to join in the billy-goat overland.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Better a goat that can give milk than a cow that cannot.
Sacrifice
Nothing has been occupying my minds,
I have all the requirements for them to be classed as two,
For I have double-vision as to the religion of my thought,
I am not guilty and I have no stigma,
Merely the goat has been slain by its owner
For the worn garment, and the delicious meat it endows.
What is century after century of sacrifice when a life has been
Rectified for all the days in it?
Why do we keep lunar years for these praises and festivals
When every year seemed to be carried?
Where is my food, O mother! Why does the goat hurt when it is dissected?
It is a child that speaks hostility and not a stranger can even desire this speech.
We can sacrifice all we want, when we want, and however we want
As long as rivers and oceans shall curve with water.
Water makes it abundantly clear, like the blood that wreaks from the neck
Of a dead goat. Always the sacrifice is made on this time in the calendar.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Treacle Brown
1)
Sunlight breeze , wind filled trees
And all the time , its ten oclock
And all is well
The clock is young and time will tell
2)
Yellow stars , bright because
Far away my ears can hear the village bell
Its twelve oclock and all is well
Chorus:
Me and my little white mountain goat
And the seas , all fields around
Me and my little white mountain goat
With his eyes all treacle brown
Repeat verses 1,2 and chorus
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Purled and Plain
A century ago or more,
a ship was wrecked in seas remote
and ‘mid the flotsam cast ashore
on limestone coast, was boy and goat.
On windswept isle of grass and scrub,
the goat was free from ship's confine,
The boy used frantic hands to grub
the remnants spat from sated brine.
Some bags of wheat, a box of tools,
he dug from sand to grant relief,
Though most the bounty lay in pools,
unreachable on distant reef.
He supplemented meagre fare
with bitter berries plucked from shrub,
And mutton birds entrapped with snare
were baked on fire, sparked by rub.
He ground the wheat to make a flour
and over stones, the dough was spread.
The fragrance drifted by the hour
and goat was drawn by fresh baked bread.
He only sought companionship
and never planned to eat the goat,
With winter's ‘proaching icy whip
he knew he'd need a cashmere coat.
Goat's lower jaw slid side to side
and yellow eyes had black slit stare,
With shears from toolbox opened wide
the boy slow clipped its shaggy hair.
It took him weeks to hand spin yarn
and fashion knitting pins from wood,
And further weeks to stitch and darn
the front to back with sleeves and hood.
The goat made charge as show of scorn
with flying hooves and lowered head,
The boy made threat to cut its horns
for buttons, but used wood instead.
The goat grew back its hair twice thick
as winter seized with frigid grip,
The boy donned coat and buttoned quick
when out of blue, appeared a ship.
The boy was saved but goat remained
a taste of freedom in its blood,
The boy looked back as vision waned,
the goat stood, placid, chewing cud.
The boy became a man of lore
who crafted tales and ably wrote,
And kept in some forgotten drawer
a wooden-buttoned goat hair coat.
poem by Diane Hine
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The more the billy goat stinks, the more the nanny goat loves him.
A man and a goat can be friends but it would be foolishness for the goat to pay the first visit.
A good kid goat comes from a young goat and a good lamb from a strong sheep.
The eye of the leopard is on the goat, and the eye of the goat is on the leaf.
If you put a silk dress on a goat, he is a goat still.