Alnaschar and the Oxen
There's a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide,
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,
On peaceful, postless, Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl,
I know the pride that Lobengula felt,
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal,
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue . . .
I have only six and twenty, but the principle's the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips,
Level-backed and level-bellied watch 'em move.
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips,
And the tail set low for flesh to make above!
Count the broad unblemished muzzles, test the kindly mellow skin
And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call,
Mark the bosom's just abundance 'neath the gay and cleancut chin,
And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all!
Here is colour, form and substance, I will put it to the proof
And, next season, in my lodges shall be born
Some very Bull of Mithras, flawless from his agate hoof
To his even-branching ivory, dusk-tipped horn.
He shall mate with block-square virgins - kings shall seek his like in vain,
While I multiply his stock a thousandfold,
Till an hungry world extol me, builder of a lofty strain
That turns one standard ton at two years old.
There's a valley, under oakwood, where a man may dream his dream,
In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease,
Till the moon o'ertops the alders, and her image chills the stream,
And the river-mist runs silver round their knees!
Now the footpaths fade and vanish; now the ferny clumps deceive;
Now the hedgerow-folk possess their fields anew;
Now the Herd is lost in darkness, and I bless them as I leave,
My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Related quotes
Cattle Call
Cattle Call
(sung by Elvis in concerts of the 1950s)
[In der mir vorliegenden Version summt er nur die Melodie.]
(Tex Owens)
The cattle are prowlin' and the coyotes are howlin'
Way out where the dogies bawl
Where spurs are a-jinglin' a cowboy is singin'
This lonesome cattle call
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo
He rides in the sun, till his days work is done
And he rounds up the cattle each fall
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Singin' his cattle call.
For hours he will ride on the range far and wide
When the night wind blows up a squall
His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather
He sings his cattle call
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo hoo
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo
He's brown as a berry from ridin' the prairie
And sings with an ol' western drawl
Woo-hoo woo-hoo hoo hoo
Singin' his cattle call
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cattle Call
(tex owens)
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Woo - hoo - ooo - oop - I - de - de
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Yod-el - od-el- lo - ti - de.
The cattle are prowlin the coyotes are howlin
Way out where the dogies bawl
Where spurs are a-jinglin, a cowboy is singin
This lonesome cattle call.
He rides in the sun til his days work is done
And he rounds up the cattle each fall
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Singin his cattle call.
For hours he will ride on the range far and wide
When the night winds blow up a squall
His heart is a feather in all kinds of weather
He sings his cattle call.
Hes brown as a berry from ridin the prairie
And he sings with an ol western drawl
Woo - hoo - woo - ooo - ti - de
Singin his cattle call.
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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They called me to the Window, for
628
They called me to the Window, for
" 'Twas Sunset"—Some one said—
I only saw a Sapphire Farm—
And just a Single Herd—
Of Opal Cattle—feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill—
As even while I looked—dissolved—
Nor Cattle were—nor Soil—
But in their stead—a Sea—displayed—
And Ships—of such a size
As Crew of Mountains—could afford—
And Decks—to seat the skies—
This—too—the Showman rubbed away—
And when I looked again—
Nor Farm—nor Opal Herd—was there—
Nor Mediterranean—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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From an Outpost
I've tramped South England up and down
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Through every little ancient town
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
I mind the old stone churches there,
The taverns round the market square,
The cobbled streets, the garden flowers,
The sundials telling peaceful hours
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
The Meadowlands are green and fair
Down Somerset and Sussex way,
The clover scent is in the air
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
I mind the deep-thatched homesteads there
The noble downlands, clean and bare.
The sheepfolds and the cattle byres,
The blue wood-smoke from shepherd's fires
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
Mayhap I shall not walk again
Down Dorset way, down Devon way,
Nor pick a posy in a lane
Down Somerset and Sussex way.
But though my bones, unshriven, rot
In some far distant alien spot,
what soul I have shall rest from care
To know that meadows still are fair
Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
poem by Leslie Coulson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cattle Call (feat. Eddy Arnold)
[LEANN]
[Yodels]
The cattle are prowlin'
The coyotes are howlin'
Way out where the doggies roam
Where the spurs are a jinglin'
And the cowboy is singin'
His lonesome cattle call
[Yodels]
He rides in the sun
'Til his days work is done,
And he rounds up the cattle each fall
[Yodels]
Singing his cattle call
[EDDY]
For hours he would ride
On the range far and wide
When the night winds blows up like smoke
His heart is a feather
In all kinds of weather
He sings his cattle call
[Yodels]
He's browned as a fairy
From riding the prairie
And he sings with an old western drawl
[Yodels]
Singin' his cattle call
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From the Gulf
Store cattle from Nelanjie! The mob goes feeding past,
With half-a-mile of sandhill 'twixt the leaders and the last;
The nags that move behind them are the good old Queensland stamp-
Short backs and perfect shoulders that are priceless on a camp;
And these are men that ride them, broad-cheated, tanned, and tall,
The bravest hearts amongst us and the lightest hands of all:
Oh, let them wade in Wonga grass and taste the Wonga dew,
And let them spread, those thousand head-for we've been droving tool
Store cattle from Nelanjie! By half-a-hundred towns,
By northern ranges rough and red, by rolling open downs
By stock-routes brown and burnt and bare, by floodwrapped river-bends,
They've hunted them from gate to gate-the drover has no friends!
But idly they may ride to-day beneath the scorching sun
And let the hungry bullocks try the grass on Wonga run;
No overseer will dog them here to "see the cattle through,"
But they may spread their thousand head-for we've been droving too!
Store cattle from Nelanjie! They've a naked track to steer;
The stockyards at Wodonga are a long way down from here;
The creeks won't run till God knows when, and half the holes are dry;
The tanks are few and far between and water's dear to buy:
There's plenty at the Brolga bore for all his stock and mine-
We'll pass him with a brave God-speed across the Border Line;
And if he goes a five-mile stage and loiters slowly through,
We'll only think the more of him-for we've been droving too I
Store cattle from Nelanjie! They're mute as milkers now;
But yonder grizzled drover, with the care-lines on his brow,
Could tell of merry musters on the big Nelanjie plains,
With blood upon the chestnut's flanks and foam upon the reins;
Could tell of nights upon the road when those same mild-eyed steers
Went ringing round the river bend and through the scrub like spears;
And if his words are rude and rough, we know his words are true,
We know what wild Nelanjies are-and we've been droving too !
Store cattle from Nelanjie! Around the fire at night
They've watched the pine-tree shadows lift before the dancing light;
They've lain awake to listen when the weird bushvoices speak,
And heard the lilting bells go by along the empty creek;
They've spun the yarns of hut and camp, the tales of play and work,
The wondrous tales that gild the road from Normanton to Bourke;
They've told of fortunes foul and fair, of women false and true,
And well we know the songs they've sung-for we've been droving too!
Store cattle from Nelanjie! Their breath is on the breeze;
You hear them tread, a thousand head, in blue-grass to the knees;
The lead is on the netting-fence, the wings are spreading wide,
The lame and laggard scarcely move so slow the drovers ride!
But let them stay and feed to-day for sake of Auld Lang Syne;
They'll never get a chance like this below the Border Iodine;
And if they tread our frontage down, what's that to me or you?
What's ours to fare, by God they'll shared for we've been droving tool
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Sands Of Dee
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee";
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.
poem by Charles Kingsley
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Old Joe The Black Cattle Dog
Old Joe the black cattle dog has known a better day
Around his jaws he is looking rather gray
He still works cattle but at a much slower pace
A young dog is being trained to take his place,
Old Joe a great cattle dog from a great working line
Is getting old for working cattle at nine
Though still keen to work nowadays he easily tire
The old legs tiring though he still has the desire
To work at cattle but his owner Jimmy say
That Joe is nearing his final working day
He will retire him he has done enough
At his age working cattle for him is too tough
He was a renowned working dog in his prime
But dog and master must bow to father time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Llano Vaqueros
Padilla unloads mangy herd of Mexican
cattle in the field.
Meaner, horns long and sharp
for bloody battle, lean from a diet
of prairie weed, looking more
like cattle did years ago
on the plains
than cattle now–
sluggish, pampered globs
stalled year round
for State Fair Judges to admire,
stall-salon dolls, hooves manicured
and polished, hide-hair blow-dried, lips
and lashes waxed.
I ride down the dirt road
on Sunshine (my bay mare)
and she smarts
away from their disdainful glare–
come in, try to lasso us,
try to comb our hair.
I admire my ancestors, llano vaqueros,
who flicked a home-made cigarette in dust,
spit in scuffed gloves, grabbed one
by the horns, wrestled it down,
branded it, with the same pleasure
they enjoyed in a bunk-house brawl.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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Pejar Creek
Deep in the meadow grass
Easy stand the cattle,
Lightly lock the young bulls
In a mimic battle,
Pride gathers with each shock,
Every break and rally -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Softly as a thrush sings
In the morning hushes,
Softly sing the waters
Round the reedy rushes,
Softly at the sand-bar,
Softly at the sally -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Where awakes the morning
To dapple all the hills,
Where dewdrop, shaken,
Pendant slides and spills,
Where the golden bugles
Sunset calls reveille -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Where the springtime blossoms
Like a mellow laughter,
Over all the grasses,
Over ridge and rafter,
Over all the tree-tops,
Down each ferny valley -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Where the Pejar rises
Springs the Wollondilly,
Twinned upon the mountains
Babbling brook and ghyllie;
Where the bridge-heads rumble
Side by side they dally -
Out where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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The River
WHY hurry, little river,
Why hurry to the sea?
There is nothing there to do
But to sink into the blue
And all forgotten be.
There is nothing on that shore
But the tides for evermore,
And the faint and far-off line
Where the winds across the brine
For ever, ever roam
And never find a home.
Why hurry, little river,
From the mountains and the mead,
Where the graceful elms are sleeping
And the quiet cattle feed?
The loving shadows cool
The deep and restful pool;
And every tribute stream
Brings its own sweet woodland dream
Of the mighty woods that sleep
Where the sighs of earth are deep,
And the silent skies look down
On the savage mountain's frown.
Oh, linger, little river,
Your banks are all so fair,
Each morning is a hymn of praise,
Each evening is a prayer.
All day the sunbeams glitter
On your shallows and your bars,
And at night the dear God stills you
With the music of the stars.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
This starry dawn - the wise men yet afar -
the shepherds are abed, their night's task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth's a miracle; not less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling, as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form- so warm - to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On the Dawn of Christ's Nativity [sonnet]
This starry dawn – the wise men yet afar –
the shepherds are abed, their night’s task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth’s a miracle; no less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form – so warm – to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed,
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet on the Morning of Christ's Birth
This starry dawn – the wise men yet afar –
the shepherds are abed, their night’s task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth’s a miracle; no less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form – so warm – to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed,
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dawn of Christ's Nativity [sonnet]
This starry dawn – the wise men yet afar –
the shepherds are abed, their night’s task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth’s a miracle; no less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form – so warm – to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed,
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0039 On the Morning of Christ's Nativity
This starry dawn - the wise men yet afar -
the shepherds are abed, their night's task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth's a miracle; not less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling, as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form- so warm - to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unsaddle From That Herd
Why does your life appear to be lived,
So rough...
And,
So severe.
You are casting broken shadows too.
And rattled from your battles.
Your shoulders droop and your mind loopy.
You are casting broken shadows and rattled,
From your battles.
Unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.
Don't weaken to submerge,
Into a deep sleep unneeded.
One with ease would be reachable.
But one you should not seek.
Why does your life appear to be lived,
So rough...
And,
So severe.
You are casting broken shadows too.
And rattled from your battles.
Unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.
Don't weaken to submerge,
Into a deep sleep unneeded.
One with ease would be reachable.
But one you should not seek.
Today you must remain awake.
Force your mind to operate,
At its optimum peak.
And unsaddle from that herd,
That has you gathered like it matters.
And bedazzled by branding cattle addicts.
Those fanatics who have long been at it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Farm-Picture
THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0031 Dawn in Bethlehem on the Morning of Christ's Nativity
This starry dawn - the wise men yet afar -
the shepherds are abed, their night's task done.
Is Mary tired? Or, as one untouched?
All birth's a miracle; not less this one.
The cattle have bestirred at hint of morn,
the thought of feeding making moist their muzzle;
straw is rustling, as they, manger-drawn,
find unfamiliar form- so warm - to nuzzle.
What were the first words Joseph softly said
to Mary, as dawn broke, this day of days?
And who, sent from the inn to cattle-shed
to feed and lay fresh straw, fell still in praise?
How long, this morn, before the murmured sound
of voices in the street, as Word gets round?
(revisited)
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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