Scratched in her short, black hair, chewed a cigar-end, spat.
Up, on the rise, the cattle bunched; the bulls
Drew to the front with menace, pawing bold,
Snatching the grass-roots out with sudden pulls,
The distant cattle raised their heads; the wold
Grew dusty at the top; a waggon rolled,
Drawn by a bickering team of mules whose eyes
Were yellow like their teeth and bared and full of vice.
Down to the jetty came the jingling team,
An Irish cowboy driving, while a Greek