The Ox

Why should I pause, poor beast, to praise

Thy back so red, thy sides so white;

And on thy brow those curls in which

Thy mournful eyes take no delight?

I dare not make fast friends with kine,

Nor sheep, nor fowl that cannot fly;

For they live not for Nature’s voice,

Since ’tis man’s will when they must die.

So, if I call thee some pet name,

And give thee of my care to-day,

Where wilt thou be to-morrow morn,

When I turn curious eyes thy way?

Nay, I’ll not miss what I’ll not find,

And I’ll find no fond cares for thee;

So take away those great sad eyes

That stare across yon fence at me.

See you that Robin, by himself,

Perched on that leafless apple branch,

His breast like one red apple left—

The last and best of all—by chance?

If I do but give heed to him,

He will come daily to my door;

And ’tis the will of God, not Man,

When Robin Redbreast comes no more.