The Cow
THIS is a rune I ravelled in the still,
Arrogant stare of an Australian cow—
‘These prankt intruders of the hornless brow,
Puffed up with strange illusions of their skill
To fence, to milk, to fatten and to kill,
Once worshipped me with temple, rite and vow,
Crowned me with stars, and bade rapt millions bow
Before what abject guess they called my will!
‘To-day, this flunkey of my midden, Man,
Throws child-oblations in my milking byre,
Stifles in slums to spare me lordly fields,
Flatters with spotless consorts my desire,
And for a pail of cream his birth-right yields,
As once in Egypt, Hellas, Ind, Iran!’
poem by Bernard O'Dowd
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Related quotes
Maids.
Yesterday I saw an old fashion milk maid
coming out of the cowshed she carried
a pail of milk in her left arm, the grip so
firm fingers used to squeezing cows long
teats twice a day… and she was followed
by five cats with erect tails….
She is the last of a vanishing group of stout
women who smell of cream and honey.
She had an open freckled face and sunlight
danced on her Monroe lips; too late now
for me, milking machines quite obscene,
a Fata Morgana? When I blinked she vanished.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Muckin' O' Geordie's Byre
At a relic aul' croft upon the hill,
Roon the neuk frae Sprottie's mill,
Tryin' a' his life tae jine the kill
Lived Geordie MacIntyre.
He had a wife as sweir's himsel'
An' a daughter as black's Auld Nick himsel'.
There wis some fun - haud awa' the smell-
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
Chorus:
For the graip was tint, the besom was deen,
The barra widna row its leen,
An'siccan a soss it never was seen
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
For the daughter had to strae and neep
The auld wife started to swipe the greep
When Geordie fell sklite on a rotten neep
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
Ben the greep cam' Geordie's soo
She stood up ahint the coo
The coo kickit oot an' o whit a stew
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
For the aul' wife she was booin' doon -
The soo was kickit on the croon
It shoved her heid in the wifie's goon
Then ben through Geordie's byre.
The daughter cam thro the barn door
An' seein' her mother let oot a roar,
To the midden she ran an' fell ower the boar
At the muckin' of Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
For the boar he lap the midden dyke
An' ower the riggs wi' Geordie's tyke.
They baith ran intil a bumbee's byke
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
The cocks an' hens began to craw
When Biddy astride the soo they saw
The postie's shelty ran awa'
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
O a hunder' years are passed an mair
Whaur Sprottie's wis, the hill is bare;
The croft's awa', sae ye'll see nae mair
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
His folks a' deid an' awa' lang syne
In case his memory we should tyne,
Whistle this tune tae keep ye in min'
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
poem by Robert Burns
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Guess What? ...Don't Care! ! !
Guess what
Don't care
I'm right
You'll spare
You are
Crazy
And I am
A lady
All the
Cool things
You break
I clean
When will
You be
Respectful
To me
I'll make
One last
Prediction
You'll pass
You stink
I know
You'll be
Down low
Guess what
Don't care
I'm right
You'll spare
Guess what (Guess what)
Don't care (Don't care)
I'm right (I'm right)
You'll spare (You'll spare)
All this
Time I
Am trying
To tell
You that
I don't
Care what
You think
All the
Time I
Am right
You die
Joking
You look
Like you
Could use
A day too
Guess what
Don't care
I'm right
You'll spare
1234 GUESS WHAT? ? ?
I DON'T CARE! ! !
poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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Man, Thou Shalt Not Kill!
Each human child by God is made
In His image own, with love, care;
To take a life is God-forbade,
No human being shall then dare!
Each human child is called by name,
While growing in the womb by God;
To murder is a sin and shame
Inviting Maker’s just rod!
The law of lands may change with time,
But lives God-made must stay untouched;
To kill is both a sin and crime,
And cannot be ignored or hushed!
The curse of God shall be upon
The man/ woman who kill the child;
The pleas of revenge of unborn
Will bring a punishment, not mild!
To urge someone to kill is just
The work of Satan with much plan;
Such human beings are accursed:
Let all know this – man or woman!
So, spare the life within the womb;
Let every life see world God-made;
The place of birth can’t turn a tomb;
Without blooming, no bud may fade!
‘Abortion is a mortal sin and heinous crime! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-16-2010
poem by John Celes
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When a woman gives birth to a child, the child needs to be able to digest the mother's milk; but when this child is old enough to begin to eat other foods, there is some switching off of this ability to consume milk.
quote by Marvin Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Amaranth
ONCE a poet—long ago—
Wrote a song as void of art
As the songs that children know,
And as pure as a child’s heart.
With a sigh he threw it down,
Saying, “This will never shed
Any glory or renown
On my name when I am dead.
“I will sing a lordly song
Men shall hear, when I am gone,
Through the years sound clear and strong
As a golden clarion.”
So this lordly song he sang
That would gain him deathless fame—
When the death-knell o’er him rang
No man even knew its name.
Ay, and when his way he found
To the place of singing souls,
And beheld their bright heads crowned
With song-woven aureoles,
He stood shame-faced in the throng,
For his brow of wreath was bare,
And, alas! his lordly song
Sere had grown in that sweet air;
Then, all sudden, a divine
Light fell on him from afar,
And he felt the child-song shine
On his forehead like a star.
So for ever. Each and all
Songs of passion or of mirth
That are not heart-pure shall fall
As a sky-lark’s—to the earth;
But the soul’s song has no bounds—
Like the voice of Israfel,
From the heaven of heavens it sounds
To the very hell of hell.
poem by Victor James Daley
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It's the Attention Given That Sells
A showstopping mocker,
Here to dropp impressions?
No.
I'm not into recreations.
They bore!
My direction has my pace on it.
Comparisons made to others,
Is an honor that flatters.
But I've never been able,
To do impressions well.
And if my toes are stepped on,
I will yell.
With a broadcasting done,
Screaming from the painful agony inflicted.
I can not escape the flair for dramatics.
It's the attention given,
That sells a unique performance.
'Work that pout.'
It's here.
'Work that stare.'
It's here.
'Now work that brow over the eye.
Arch it up real high! '
'Work that pout.'
It's here.
'Work that stare.'
It's here.
'Now work that brow over the eye.
Arch it up real high! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dairy Ode
Our muse it doth refuse to sing
Of cheese made early in the spring,
When cows give milk from spring fodder
You cannot make a good cheddar.
The quality is often vile
Of cheese that is made in April,
Therefore we think for that reason
You should make later in the season.
Cheese making you should delay
Until about the first of May.
Then cows do feed on grassy field
And rich milk they abundant yield.
Ontario cannot compete
With the Northwest in raising wheat,
For cheaper there they it can grow
So price in future may be low.
Though this a hardship it may seem,
Rejoice that you have got the cream,
In this land of milk and honey,
Where dairy farmers do make money.
Utensils must be clean and sweet,
So cheese with first class can compete,
And daily polish up milk pans,
Take pains with vats and with milk cans.
And it is important matter
To allow no stagnant water,
But water from pure well or stream
The cow must drink to give pure cream.
Canadian breeds 'tis best to pair
With breeds from the shire of Ayr,
They thrive on our Canadian feed
And are for milking splendid breed.
Though 'gainst spring cheese some do mutter,
Yet spring milk also makes bad butter,
Then there doth arise the query
How to utilize it in the dairy.
The milk it floats in great spring flood
Though it is not so rich and good,
Let us be thankful for this stream
Of milk and also curds and cream.
All dairymen their highest aims
Should be to make the vale of Thames,
Where milk doth so abundant flow,
Dairyland of Ontario.
poem by James McIntyre
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Obesity
The over abundance of non healthy food used to cheaply fatten a society up.
But for what?
Obesity at the cost of millions and billions of dollars.
An annoying pun hey hamburgers can be fun.
Should we really take so much pleasure out of what we eat.
When such a disease is running rampant.
The body should be treated as temple.
Everything in moderation.
This should be a caption put on all food labels.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Have no illusions
Have no illusions –
Life is challenging
Have no illusions –
Marriage is not easy
Have no illusions –
Sometimes you’ll question
Have no illusions –
You will find fault
Have no illusions –
This is marriage
Have no illusions –
You will work it out
Have no illusions –
Hardship brings strength
Have no illusions –
You are each other’s rock
Have no illusions –
Love will endure.
poem by Melanie James
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Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Road To Success isn’t As The Crow Flies
The road to success is not as the crow flies
There are derailments and breakdowns
Speed breakers are called uncertainty
Humps are called hurdles of life
Neon signs are called friends to guide you
And consciousness is called Family make you aware of
But if you have a spare wheel called willpower,
A strong engine called firmness,
Car insurance called confidence, and
A car driving skill is called Faith,
I m sure you will drive your car successfully
Towards the road of success
poem by Dr Shamim ali
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Separate Beginnings
Everything separates-
Child from parent,
Husband from wife,
Ore from a mine,
Cream from milk,
Butter from cream,
Breath from my lungs.
A churning, changing, complex
Spin, apart, then back again.
The child has children,
Two hearts pair up in a damp Paris street
The earth pushes up the ground –
Too slow for us to see.
Another cow is lead into a stall,
And I inhale the precious essences
Of you, again.
poem by Charlotte Ballard
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The Milkmaid's Song
Turn, turn, for my cheeks they burn,
Turn by the dale, my Harry!
Fill pail, fill pail,
He has turned by the dale,
And there by the stile waits Harry.
Fill, fill,
Fill, pail, fill,
For there by the stile waits Harry!
The world may go round, the world may stand still
But I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.
Wheugh, wheugh!
O, if we two
Stood down there now by the water,
I know who'd carry me over the ford
As brave as a soldier, as proud as a lord,
Though I don't live over the water.
Wheugh, wheugh! he's whistling through,
He's whistling 'The Farmer's Daugher.'
Give down, give down,
My crumpled brown!
He shall not take the road to the town,
For I'll meet him beyond the water.
Give down, give down,
My crumpled brown!
And send me to my Harry.
The folk o' towns
May have silken gowns,
But I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.
Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through
He has whistled through the water.
Fill, fill, with a will, a will,
For he's whistled through the water,
And he's whistling down
The way to the town,
And it's not 'The Farmer's Daughter!'
Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,
The sun sets over the water,
Churr, churr! goes the cockchafer,
I'm too late for my Harry!
And, O, if he goes a-soldiering,
The cows they may low, the bells they may ring,
But I'll neither milk nor marry,
Fill pail,
Neither milk nor marry.
My brow beats on thy flank, Fill pail,
Give down, good wench, give down!
I know the primrose bank, Fill pail,
Between him and the town.
Give down, good wench, give down, Fill pail,
And he shall not reach the town!
Strain, strain! he's whistling again,
He's nearer by half a mile.
More, more! O, never before
Were you such a weary while!
Fill, fill! he's crossed the hill,
I can see him down by the stile,
He's passed the hay, he's coming this way,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
Give silken gowns to the folk o' towns,
He's coming to me, my Harry!
That she walks to-night with Harry!
Come late, come soon, come sun, come moon,
O, I can milk and marry,
Fill pail,
I can milk and marry.
Wheugh, wheugh! he has whistled through,
My Harry! my lad! my lover!
Set the sun and fall the dew,
Heigh-ho, merry world, what's to do
That you're smiling over and over?
Upon the hill and down in the dale,
And along the tree-tops over the vale
Shining over and over,
Low in the grass and high on the bough,
Shining over and over,
O world, have you ever a lover!
You were so dull and cold just now,
O world, have you ever a lover?
I could not see a leaf on the tree,
And now I could count them, one, two, three,
Count them over and over,
Leaf from leaf like lips apart,
Like lips apart for a lover.
And the hillside beats with my beating heart,
And the apple-tree blushes all over,
And the May bough touched me and made me start,
And the wind breathes warm like a lover.
Pull, pull! and the pail is full,
And milking's done and over,
Who would not sit here under the tree?
What a fair fair thing's a green field to see!
Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me!
I have set my pail on the daisies!
It seems so light, - can the sun be set?
The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet.
I could cry to have hurt the daisies!
Harry is near, Harry is near,
My heart's as sick as if he were here,
My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet,
He hasn't uttered a word as yet,
But the air's astir with his praises.
My Harry!
The air's astir with your praises.
He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone,
He's among the kingcups, - he picks me one,
I love the grass that I tread upon
When I go to my Harry!
He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knowe,
There's never a faster foot I know,
But still he seems to tarry.
O Harry! On Harry! my love, my pride,
My heart is leaping, my arms are wide!
Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside,
Roll up, and bring my Harry!
They may talk of glory over the sea,
But Harry's alive, and Harry's for me,
My love, my lad, my Harry!
Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow,
What cares Dolly, whether or no,
While I can milk and marry?
Right or wrong, and wrong or right,
Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight,
But I'll bring my pail home every night
To love, and home, and Harry!
We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake,
There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the bake,
The world may sleep, the world may wake,
But I shall milk and marry,
And marry,
I shall milk and marry.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Well, I'm half Australian, half English and I live in London. That is the only reason I came upon this story. My Australian mother, Meredith Hooper, was invited in late 2007 by some Australian friends to make up a token Australian audience in a tiny fringe theater play reading of an unproduced, unrehearsed play called 'The King's Speech.'
quote by Tom Hooper
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If Iran becomes a nuclear weapon state it is the end of non-proliferation as we know it. If Iran gets a nuclear weapon you are likely to see Saudi, Egypt and other countries follow suit and we will bequeath to the next generation a nuclear arms race in the world's most unstable region.
Hawker, the Standard Bearer
The grey gull sat on a floating whale,
On a floating whale sat he,
And he told his tale of the storm and the gale,
And the ships that he saw with steam and sail,
As he flew by the Northern Sea.
"I have seen a sign that is strange and new,
That I never before did see:
A flying ship that roared as it flew,
The storm and the tempest driving through,
It carried a flag and it carried a crew,
Now what would that be?" said he.
"And the flag was a Jack with stars displayed,
A flag that is new to me;
For it does not ply in the Northern trade,
But it drove through the storm-wrack unafraid,
Now, what is that flag?" said he.
"I have seen that flag that is starred with white,"
Said a southern gull, said he,
"And saw it fly in a bloody fight,
When the raider Emden turned in flight,
And crashed on the Cocos lee."
"And who are these folk whose flag is first
Of all the flags that fly
To dare the storm and the fog accurst,
Of the great North Sea where the bergs are nursed,
And the Northern Lights ride high?"
"The Australian folk," said a lone sea-mew,
"The Australian flag," said he.
"It is strange that a folk that is far and few
Should fly their flag where there never flew
Another flag!" said he.
"I have followed their flag in the fields of France,
With its white stars flying free,
And no misfortune and no mischance
Could turn them back from their line of advance,
Or the line that they held," said he.
"Whenever there's ever rule to break,
Wherever they oughtn't to be,
With a death to dare and a risk to take,
A track to find or a way to make,
You will find them there," said he.
"They come from a land that is parched with thirst,
An inland land," said he,
"On risk and danger their breed is nursed,
And thus it happens their flag is first
To fly in the Northern Sea."
"Though Hawker perished, he overcame
The risks of the storm and the sea,
And his name shall be written in stars of flame,
On the topmost walls of the Temple of Fame,
For the rest of the world to see."
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Child In Me
Dont slow me down, just drive me away
The skies are grey today, I look at life that way
So put me on a plane, I may escape the rain
My friends are acting strange, things dont look the same
I guess the child in me, defines the way I see
I guess the child in me, defines the way I see
Miracles
Dont let me down, just live for today
The price is high you say, you look at life that way
So put me on a chain, I will escape again
Living by the book I say,would drive me insane
I guess the child in me, defines the way I see
I guess the child in me, defines the way I see
Miracles come my way
Through the eyes of a child I am spinning round
Through the eyes of a child I will work it out
I guess the child in me, defines the way I see
Through the eyes of a child
Through the eyes of a child
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lack Thereof
Amid the mystic fields of dreams
I wandered, and came on a grave.
Breathlessly still was all around
Yet breathin' with an easy heart;
And there beyond, in wooded grove,
Were visions, all so much the same,
That they became one. A girl drew near,
And on me gazed with wanderin' eye,
And would have passed, but that I called,
Clappin' my hands above my head,
‘My time is now! ' and I followed
After the beautiful spirit
And bade her stop and look at me.
And so I called her lovelier
Than any else, only because
She only then before me was.
And, while we stood and gazed, a change,
Diversely strange, was seen in her:
She became ever more and more
The one I loved before, ago;
Could this be true, could this angel,
Such that I could no longer doubt,
Be the same, who was now to sight
My muse, as lovely as last seen,
As outer darkness starts to fall,
Is this her or the lack therof.
And what of, the abandoned grave,
The girl now walks slowly towards
And blindly circles, in half-turns,
Now dances she round the tomb site;
And, as the light of the moon glows
Illuminatin' her movements
Of diviner motion, she said,
"Come, come and see, see what awaits.
‘That which could not be kept or held,
Seekin' reason, aspires to die,
And, unspeakably, profoundly
Unrequited desire is crowned! "
From this exaltation I stir
As my eyes look at the marker
And comprehend the epitaph
Here Lies Love and the Lack Thereof!
To the same old tune, but softer
The maiden sang, ‘What did you do,
Then, for love and the lack thereof
Of such an ineffectual flame
As ill consumes the sacrifice! '
poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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