RUBAIYAT OF THE "COW COCKIE"

Waikato Independent, Volume XXXI, Issue 2779, 24 November 1931, Page 2

RUBAIYAT OF THE "COW COCKIE"

(With Apologies to Omar Khayyam). Wake! for the sun, though still far out of sight, Heralds the morn—and though as yet 'tis night, ■ We must arise and don our sticky togs, Yarding the cows by Saturn's glimmering light. Dreaming when dawn's left hand was in the sky, I heard a voice within the cowshed cry, "Come on, you blighters, get a wriggle on, It matters nothing when you work, nor why.'' Here with a benzine tin beneath the cow, A pot of grease, a three-legged stool, and thou, Wcr't not for auctioneer and mortgagee, I'd chuck the sordid business here and now. I sometimes think that never seems so blue The Cockic's outlook, as when I and you Crouched 'ncath the cows on some cold rainy morn, Realise that all our xjrolits go —to who? That earthly hope men set their hearts upon, Two bob a pound to start with, and anon A bonus that shall make it two-and-nine, Is "kidstakes" and it simply can't be done. Of chairman and directors who discussed Of "over-run" so wisely, they arc thrust Like foolish prophets forth, their words to scorn Are scattered, and the company's gone bust. Oh, thou who didst with mortgage and with bill Invest the soil that I'm supposed to till, Thou wilt us with foreclosure round enmesh, Grub all thou canst and put me through the mill. Ah, my beloved, fill the form that clears To-day of all back debts and future scares; To-morrow, why, to-morrow I may be Bankrupt and swanking with the profiteers. And that inverted dray which is the sty Whcrcunder crawling coopt the pigs do He, Look not to them for aid nor help for they Will fetch just nothing, once the cowsare dry. Of mangolds, and the various kinds of swedes, One plants to satisfy the bovine needs, Myself, in all I ever tried to grow, Was never rich in anything but weeds. The dock, the vine (blackberry) and ox-eye, Ragwort, Canadian thistle, tell me why They grow so fast, despite of all my toil ? I grub them, but they never seen to die. Strange is it not that of the myriads who Before us used this self-same work to do. Not one returns to show us we are chumps. We, to discover that, must do it, too. And when myself, with muddy feet shall pass, Among the cows, star-scattered on the grass. And on thy mournful errand reach the spot, That once knew me, then write me down an ass.