The Old Cotter and His Cow
My good old Cow,
I scarce know how
Again we’ve wintered over;
With my scant fare,
And thine so spare—
No dainty dish, nor clover!
We both were old,
And keen the cold;
While poorly housed we found us;
And by the blast
That, whistling, passed,
The snows were sifted round us.
While, many a day.
Few locks of hay
Were most thy crib presented,
A patient Cow,
And kind wast thou,
And with thy mite contented.
But though the storms
Have chilled our forms,
And we’ve been pinched together,
The dark, blue day
Is passed away;
We’ve reached the warm spring weather!
The bounteous earth
Is shooting forth
Her grass and flowers so gayly;
Thou now canst feed
Along the mead,
While food is growing daily.
The soft, sweet breeze
Through budding trees
Now fans my brow so hoary:
And these old eyes
Find new supplies
Of light from nature’s glory.
Though poor my cot,
And low my lot,
With thee, my richest treasure,
I take my cup,
And looking up,
Bless Him who gives my measure.