She milked the cow; and all the morn was hushed
(It was a beast that never kicked or rushed)
The startled dicky-birds of early Spring
Sat up amazed to mark this splendid thing,
Nigh fainting with delight upon the bough . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow; nor all the glory rare
Of that October morning could compare
With that sweet sylvan scene; the grace, the charm
The rhythmic movement of her dimpled arm,
Would make a poor bloke feel just anyhow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow. ‘Twas at South Sassafras
(Which is a cruel word to rhyme,alas)
And all who gazed thereon decalred, with force,
It was sublime – except the cow, of course
Who wore a patient frown upn her brow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow – at least, she said she did.
There was the milk in proof; and God forbid
That I should doubt the statement in the least,
(I sympathised in private with the beast
Who said – but still, what does it matter now?)
She milked the cow.
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