A Drought Idyll
It was the middle of the drought; the ground was hot and bare,
You might search for grass with a microscope, but nary grass was there;
The hay was done, the cornstalks gone, the trees were dying fast,
The sun o'erhead was a curse in read and the wind was a furnace blast;
The waterholes were sun-baked mud, the drays stood thick as bees
Around the well, a mile away, amid the ringbarked trees.
McGinty left his pumpkin-pie and gazed upon the scene:
His cows stood propped 'gainst tree and fence wherever they could lean;
The horse he'd fixed with sapling forks had fallen down once more;
The fleas were hopping joyfully on stockyard, path, and floor;
The flies in thousands buzzed about before his waving hand;
The hungry pigs squealed as he said, 'Me own, me native land!'
'Queensland, me Mother! Ain't yer well?' he asked. 'Come tell me how's -'
'Dry up! Dry up!' yelled Mrs Mac, 'Go out and feed the cows.'
'But where's the feed?' McGinty cried, 'The sugarcane's all done -
It wasn't worth the bally freight we paid for it per ton.
I'll get me little axe and go with Possum and the mare
For 'arf a ton of apple-tree or a load of prickly-pear.'
'The prickly-pear'll kill the cows unless yer bile it right,'
Cried Mrs Mac, 'and I don't mean to bile it all the night.
They tell me fer a bob a bag the brewery will sell
Their refuse stuff, like Simpson 'ad - his cows is doin' well.
Yer get the loan of Bampston's dray and borrer Freeny's nags,
And fetch along a decent load, McGinty - thirty bags.
McGinty borrowed Bampston's dray and hitched up Freeney's nags
And drove like blazes into town and fetched back thirty bags.
The stuff was mellow, soft, and brown; and if you came too near
It shed around a lovely scent till the air seemed full of beer,
McGinty fetched each feedbox out and filled it to the brim,
Then lit his pipe and fell asleep. That was the style of him.
The cows, they lurched off fence and tree and staggered in to feed,
The horses tottered after them - old, feeble, and knock-kneed.
But when they smelt that sacred stuff in boxes on the ground
They smiled and neighed and lowed and twirled their hungry tails around.
You would have walked a hundred miles or more to see and hear
They way McGinty's stock attacked that stuff that smelt like beer…
'Wake up! Wake up! McGinty man! Wake up!' yelled Mrs Mac.
She held a broom and every word was followed by a whack.
McGinty had been dreaming hard that it was Judgement Day
And he was drafted with the goats and being driven away;
The Devil with a toasting fork was jabbing at his jaw,
He rose and yelled and fled outside - and this is what he saw:
The brindle cow, with spotted tail, was trying to climb a tree;
The spotted cow, with brindled tail, to imitate a flea;
Old Bally who had lost one horn engaged in combat stout
With the Lincoln ram whose only eye McGinty had knocked out;
With tails entwined, among the trees, went Bessie and Basilk,
Singing, 'Goodbye, McGinty, we will come back with the milk,'
McGinty, trembling, viewed the scene in wonderment and funk,
Then lifted up his voice and roared, 'Mother, the cows is drunk!
Look at that bloomin' heifer with 'er 'ead 'ung down the sty,
Telling the sow she loves 'er but she some'ow can't tell why.
Three of 'em snoring on their backs, the rest all on the loose -
Ain't there no police in these parts when cows gets on the boose?'
McGinty viewed the orgy with a jealousy profound -
Cows in various states of drunk were scattered all around;
But most his rage was heightened by the conduct of the horse
That stood and laughed, and laughed, and laughed - and laughed without remorse -
That horse so oft he'd lifted up and propped with logs and boughs
Now leant against a tree and mocked McGinty and his cows.
'Bring soda-water, Mother,' cried McGinty, 'Bring a tub'
(Forgetting that he lived about a league from any pu .
'I swear by soda-water when the drink illumes my brow,
And if it fixes up a man it ought to fix a cow.'
But as he spoke a boozy steer approached with speed intense
And helped McGinty over to the safe side of the fence.
Regret and hate and envy held McGinty where he sat.
'To think,' he said, 'these purple cows should have a time like that!
For months I couldn't raise a drink - it wasn't up to me;
Yet every bally head of stock I've got is on the spree.
This comes when you forget to keep a bottle on the shelf.'
Inspired, he rose and smote his brow and fetched a spoon and delf -
'My word!' he said. 'It's up to me to feed on this meself!'
poem by George Essex Evans
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Related quotes
Another Mike Harris
Tim Hudak: I don’t know you even though you’re a politician,
You should grab some Ontario headlines in your condition,
As premier of Ontario, you could and should change a lot,
Come out from behind the snowbound trees and show us what you got.
Offer us binding referendums and compulsory voting,
Much better than nothing that McGinty is offering and promoting,
Because if you do nothing and stay in the shadows, nothing will change,
I hope someone sends you this poem though it is a little strange.
Our radical ideas will get the establishment upset,
But as Ontario premier, you will have nothing to regret,
It is your best bet if you want to come out from the dark,
Give Ontario and Canada its first real bench mark.
Jan 25th,2011
poem by James Bredin
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Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
Food In Heaven
He made the cows to want the rain to fall he made the grass that they use to eat to fill the want inside a cow he makes grass as bread for cows they just continue there to graze in some places in the desert spaces there is grass for cows to eat this is called heaven sweet to cows they drink water when they have it in a drink flavored pouch oh no see eh ewe caught me making lies no listen while eye smile and tell ewe this poem is so nice there is grass for all the cows there is grass on every hill and every cow can eat in heaven they still have grass for every cow there is food in heaven there is food there in a drink flavored pouch.
poem by Charles Hice
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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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Langwidge
'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses; 'e did, an' worse;
'Twas 'orrible the langwidge that 'e used.
It made me blood run cold to 'ear 'im curse;
An' me that taken-back-like an' confused;
W'ile them poor beasts 'e belted an' abused.
'They couldn't shift,' 'e ses, 'a blanky 'earse!
The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' You oughter 'eard 'im curse.
You would a bin that shocked. . . . An' the idear!
'Im usin' such remarks about a 'earse;
An' 'is own brother buried not a year.
'Not move a blanky 'earee!' 'e ses. My dear,
You 'ardly could imagine langwidge worse.
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' Wot would the parson say?
An' 'im so friendly-like with 'im an' 'er.
I pity 'er; I do, 'cos, in 'er way.
She is respectable. But 'i! It's fur
From me, as you well know, to cast a slur,
On anyone; but wot I 'eard that day. . . .
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' I know quite well that we
Ain't wot you'd call thin-skinned; and nasty pride
Is wot I never 'ad.... But 'er! ... W'y she
She's allus that stuck-up an' full o' side;
A sorter thing I never could abide.
An' all the time 'er 'usband.... Goodness me!
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' O' course 'e never knowed
That I was list'nin' to 'im all the w'ile.
'E muster bin a full hour on the road;
An', Lord, you could 'a' 'eard 'im for a mile.
Jes' cos they stuck 'im in that boggy sile:
'If they ain't blanky swine,' 'e ses, 'I'm blowed!
The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' W'y, if it 'ad occurred,
An' me not 'eard, I'd 'ardly think it true.
An', you know well, I wouldn't breathe a word
Against a livin' soul, I don't care 'oo;
Not if the Queen of Hingland arst me to.
But, oh! that langwidge! If you only 'eard!
'The flamin' cows!'
'The flamin' cows!' 'e ses,, an' more besides.
An' fancy! 'Im! To think that 'e would swear!
W'y 'Blarst!' 'e sez... Yes! 'Blarst the'r blanky 'ides!'
(Oh, you may well throw up your 'ands an' stare!)
Yes - 'Blarst,' 'e ses, 'the'r blanky 'ides an' 'air!
I'll out the blanky skin off er the'r sides!
The flamin' cows!'
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Till The Land
till the land, till the land,
plant the seeds, pray for rain.
feed your cows and your pigs,
always stop to give thanks.
close to the earth, the seasons,
to your family, to your heart....
to your neighbors, to your friends, .
do your best, do your part.
till the land, till the land,
plant the seeds, pray for rain.
feed your cows and your chickens,
always stop to give thanks.
from generation to generation,
the traditions handed down.
take care of the land you work,
keep the wheel going 'round.
till the land, till the land,
plant the seeds, pray for rain.
feed your cows and your horses,
always stop to give thanks.
now the times have changed,
you're not needed anymore.
the bank's come to take away
all the things you've stood for.
till the land, till the land,
plant the seeds, pray for rain.
feed your cattle and your family,
always stop to give thanks.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Farm Scene
They come each morning to the gate,
are milked and wander off to feed;
six cows, a calf and in the lead
a brindled bull, old, fat sedate.
And every evening they are back,
loafing along the quarter-mile
of dusty lane in single file,
the old bull trailing up the track.
I would not load with thought that brings
meanings deep-conjured in the mind
this quiet scene-but here I find
the rhythm of eternal things.
And envy him who takes his pail
jingling to met them at the gate;
sun-up, sun-down, that constant date
which neither he nor they will fail.
I envy him whose life allows
him the cool blessedness; to stand
and simply watch the coming and
later the going of the cows.
poem by Ernest G Moll
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Do Cows Not Count?
The board of
The National Horse Protection League
advertised in a newspaper that there are no vegetarians on their board.
Do cows not count? Does God love horses more than cows or pigs?
****************
US regime (unelected) wants to murder (euthanize) wild horses
Senator Craig who has resigned because of a sexual scandal
(effective with election or before) is trying to prevent horse
protection. Horse slaughterhouses have moved to Canada and Mexico
poem by O. Anna Niemus
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The Whale
The Whale is found in seas and oceans,
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.
When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.
Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.
Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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The Wildy Ones
The sheep are in the silver wood,
The cows are in the broom;
The goats are in the wild mountain
And won't be home by noon.
My mother sang that olden tune
Most every night,
And to her newest she would croon
By candle light;
While cuddling in the velvet gloom
I'd dream of cows
That sought each dawn 'mid golden broom
To gently browse.
Or I would glimpse the silver wood,
The birchen glade,
Where pearly sheep in quiet mood
Cropped unafraid;
But how I loved in lapsing drowse
The mountain wild!
The goats were more than sheep and cows
To one wee child.
For cows and sheep are shelter-wise,
And love the lea;
While goats have starlight in their eyes,
In cragland free . . .
And now on edge of endless sleep
Wryly I note
How less I'm kin to kine and sheep
Than rebel goat!
poem by Robert William Service
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A Haunting Memory
Wild rockets blew along the lane;
The tall white gentians too were there;
The mullein stalks were brave again;
Of blossoms was the bramble bare;
And toward the pasture bars below
The cows went by me, tinkling slow.
Straight through the sunset flew a thrush,
And sang the only song he knew,
Perched on a ripening elder bush;
(Oh, but to give his song its due!)
Sang it, and ceased, and left it there
To haunt bush, blade, and golden air.
Oh, but to make it plain to you!
My words were wrought for grosser stuff;
To give that lonely tune its due,
Never a word is sweet enough;
A thing to think on when ’twas past,
As is the first rose or the last.
The lad, driving his cows along,
Strode whistling through the windy grass;
The little pool the shrubs among
Lay like a bit of yellow glass;
A window in the farmhouse old,
Turned westward, was of glaring gold.
I have forgotten days and days,
And much well worth the holding fast;
Yet not the look of those green ways,
The bramble with its bloom long past,
The tinkling cows, the scent, the hush—
Still on the eider sings that thrush.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Hyperboles and Such
A bubble floats,
Will pass on by,
The cows and goats
Begin to cry.
The balloon falls dead.
The whip cracks dawn.
The frog prince hopes.
The jungle kings yawn.
Until then, the till now plows.
And earth now weeps for goats and cows.
poem by Jesse Swedlund
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Countryside
Patches of dark grey clouds
and streaks of white clouds
on the greenish brown hills
blocking the daylight;
The water-filled paddy fields
the swaying of the coconut tree leaves
the raindrops on mustard flowers;
some black and white coloured
cows tied under a tree
and a herd of mooing cows heading home;
The smiles of children playing in
rain puddles, various coloured
umbrellas scattered from
here to there, people rushing
to their homes, a small
temple sheltering all;
The cool breeze, the droplets of
water on every face,
the smell of damp brown-earth
made the time stand still.
I paused and resumed
my journey of life.
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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Once a man went into a forest to sell his cows
There was no one to buy except a pair of doves,
The doves asked the man: ' How much? '
Their question gave him an emotional touch.
He said that he would not sell the cows' hoofs.
quote by by MBJ Pancras
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Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows - and china.
quote by Charles Dickens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Traditional Panorama
cows spotted thick
skins grazing on the green
field with golden rays of
sunshine
early morning
birds flying hovering
on tree branches
fences, and boundaries
cottage of a farmer
blue clouds now starting
to hover in place
a girl singing butterflies
mother milking the cows
and father beginning
to plow the corn field
no plane above the skies
no rockets
at night some meteors
fall,
wishing stars and
zodiac escapades
from the numbing routine
of traditions
no one escapes
the panorama is closed and
strict
the characters are born
marry, beget children,
and then they die
and get buried
years and years
leaves fall, there are no questions.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spirit communicate with us through dream
Do you have a dream at night?
To wake up relaxed or scared so much that you feel you had been in a fight
Some people believe, you have a dream usually after the big meal
Is it just the imagination or true, all depends how you feel
Dream is the only channel that spirit communicate with us
Either they miss a love one or if we are in danger, they try to warn us
A man explained to Prophet Joseph, that he had a dream that seven skinny cows ate seven fat cows
Another man said of his dream that he will be feed to the birds tomorrow
Prophet Joseph interpreted the first man dream, that Egypt will face seven years of famine and hunger
He told the second man, tomorrow is your last day, and you will not live any longer
Some people believe during heavy asleep a spirit separates from the body
That’s why it is not safe to wake up someone in hurry
If you have a dream at night
Talk to someone expert in a dream, to tell you what you read of your dream is wrong or right
Sam Arjomandi
poem by Sam Arjomandi
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Those Who Come To Bull
When is BS,
BS?
And begins to spoil the atmosphere?
When bullies attempt to jump over the Moon,
To stumble over pebbles instead.
With a sneaking done over a fence,
To stench the field.
With disguises to pass themselves off,
As prized cows...
To spy on the thoroughbreds grazing.
As the real prized cows swoon,
To gain the attention...
Of those who are true champions.
No matter what those who come to bull do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Muse Of Life
Black and white horses,
Black and white cows,
All that muses is about life;
Cos', the wind blows to where it is directed.
Brown and white horses,
Brown and white cows,
The muse of life teaches us many tricks;
But, i've got rain and sunshine to crown the day.
The muse of a moose,
The bloom of a flower,
The blues of mankind to take the pieces;
The muse of life teaches many.
'The dish washer is not in the Bible'! !
Shouted the lone-ranger in need of love;
But, all that muses is about life.
Of cows and horses,
Of men and women,
Of Black and White Race to fill the earth;
Yes, all that muses is about life.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Free-Selector's Daughter
I met her on the Lachlan Side --
A darling girl I thought her,
And ere I left I swore I'd win
The free-selector's daughter.
I milked her father's cows a month,
I brought the wood and water,
I mended all the broken fence,
Before I won the daughter.
I listened to her father's yarns,
I did just what I `oughter',
And what you'll have to do to win
A free-selector's daughter.
I broke my pipe and burnt my twist,
And washed my mouth with water;
I had a shave before I kissed
The free-selector's daughter.
Then, rising in the frosty morn,
I brought the cows for Mary,
And when I'd milked a bucketful
I took it to the dairy.
I poured the milk into the dish
While Mary held the strainer,
I summoned heart to speak my wish,
And, oh! her blush grew plainer.
I told her I must leave the place,
I said that I would miss her;
At first she turned away her face,
And then she let me kiss her.
I put the bucket on the ground,
And in my arms I caught her:
I'd give the world to hold again
That free-selector's daughter!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Flanders
Flanders, the name of a place, a country of people,
Spells itself with letters, is written in books.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked one time,
Flanders known only to those who lived there
And milked cows and made cheese and spoke the home language.
"Where is Flanders?" was asked.
And the slang adepts shot the reply: Search me.
A few thousand people milking cows, raising radishes,
On a land of salt grass and dunes, sand-swept with a sea-breath on it:
This was Flanders, the unknown, the quiet,
The place where cows hunted lush cuds of green on lowlands,
And the raw-boned plowmen took horses with long shanks
Out in the dawn to the sea-breath.
Flanders sat slow-spoken amid slow-swung windmills,
Slow-circling windmill arms turning north or west,
Turning to talk to the swaggering winds, the childish winds,
So Flanders sat with the heart of a kitchen girl
Washing wooden bowls in the winter sun by a window.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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