’T was near the close of day, yet bright
The sun shone o’er the hill,
And pour’d a flood of golden light
On every object still.
With hat in hand, and reeking brows,
Did little Thomas come,
For he had helped to bring the cows
From distant pasture home.
Now, seated on the gray stone wall
Which all the yard surrounds,
His eye attentive noted all
That passed within its bounds.
With snow-white pail, the dairy’s pride,
Each milker seated low,
Rested his head against the side
Of every gentle cow.
From Brown and Pied, from Black and Red,
The milk with care was drawn;
But Brindle fiercely shook her head
And raised her pointed horn.
Away she ran; but boy and man
Soon overtook and tied her,
And sturdy Ben, to milk her then,
Sat closely down beside her.
So! So! they cried, stand steady now.
But all would not avail,
For with her foot the restless cow
Soon overthrew the pail.
On dirt and sward the milk was pour’d
By Brindle’s luckless blow,
And in a pen they put her then
Till she could gentle grow.
The rest were sent, the milking done,
To graze in grassy field,
Till summon’d by the rising sun
Their morning’s milk to yield.