THE SONG OF THE COW.

Manawatu Herald, Volume XL, Issue 1893, 22 October 1918, Page 4

THE SONG OF THE COW.

(“One who lias been I boro.”)

Slish, slosh, slush, enmes the sound of the milker's feet, Through the dim, grey light of a winter's dawn in the biller wind and sleet; We stand in a huddled group, my sisters in woe, and I, Willi hunched-up hacks by the stockyard rails, in water and mud knee-high.

Crumble and growl and grump, (his is their morning hymn— The language used by these callow voulhs would make your senses

swim; ■ Thump and grumble and whack, whack and grumble and cuss; The children arc mad at having to work, and they vent their spile 011 11s. We crush through the opening gate, and charge (ho unswepl hails. The milkers follow in filthy rags, hanging their haltered pails; They “clean themselves” with a will before they start for school, But what do a few score microbes count in the tale of the milking stools

I have lost an eye by a shanghai stone (just a sweet little cherub’s play); My brindled sister lost a horn through a kiss from a brick one day; Our teats may lie cracked and raw —sorrow to her who jumps! My ribs were sore for a_ fortnight once from a gentle milker’s thumps.

We were starved in our hand-fed days on skim-milk, slush and cold; We parch in, the summer's Real, we drink from a stagnant drain; They dog us each night to the milking shed, and dog ns away again. 0, ’lien with sweethearts dear, oh, men with youngsters and wives, It's not machines you are wearing out, hut suffering creature’s lives.

Cannot you understand what seems

to us so plain— If you’d treat us kindly and feed us well we would double tit least your gain?