Oh, it's pleasant, early mornings,
Milking cows,
When the wet leaves sparkle on the lightwood boughs,
And the rusting fencing wires
Are all strung with dewy fires,
As the fleecy sunlight finds me
Milking cows.
I can see, these autumn mornings,
Milking cows,
A far-off hillside where a neighbor ploughs,
All chocolate squares and green;
I can smell the earth scents keen,
Better far than frying bacon,
Milking cows.
Hear the magpies sing o' mornings,
Milking cows,
Singing madly from a dead gum's naked boughs,
And the butcher-bird's clear whistles,
And the scrub wrens in the thistles,
I should miss them if I wasn't
Milking cows.
Still, it's very quiet of evenings,
Milking cows,
Quiet and lonely in a season that allows
No time for two to meet
When they're putting in the wheat,
And it's dark before I finish
Milking cows.
And the frosty starlight finds me
Milking cows,
While the sleepy-headed ranges seem to drowse.
I must hurry or be late.
Is that someone at the gate
While I'm still (Stand over, Blossom!)
Milking cows?
First published in The Bulletin, 30 May 1934
