The cow low’d sadly o’er the distant gate,
In the mid-field and round our garden rail;
But nought her restless sorrow could abate,
Nor patting hands nor clink of milking-pail;
For she had lost the love she least could spare.
Her little suckling calf, her life of life,
In some far shambles waited for the knife,
And spent his sweet breath on the murderous air.
One single yearning sound, repeated still,
Moan’d from the croft, and wander’d round the hill
The heedless train ran brawling down the line;
On went the horsemen and the market-cart,
But little Rose, who loved the sheep and kine,
Ran home to tell of Cushie’s broken heart.