Down the lane to the pasture bars!

My prodigal thoughts once more

Go back to my father’s calling me

From the narrow back stairway door:

“It’s getting late, Bob; the milking’s done!”

(He never had more to say);

With a bound to the floor I hurriedly dressed,

To drive the cows away!

A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower;

From every tree a song,

(A symphony rare of warbled joy),

As the cows slowly browsed along!

The sun gently kissed the mist away,

That over the valley hung,

While odors of incense floated high,

From an unseen censer swung.

Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er,

While heavier chores were done

By older men, I trudged along,

In the path of the setting sun,

Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!”

And often the baby stars

Played hide-and-seek from behind a cloud,

Ere I left the pasture bars.

No more do I hear in the city’s din,

(And never shall I again),

The country sounds in the early morn,

As I trudged a-down the lane;

But I hope as I near the sunset hour,

No sorrow my pathway mars,

Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!”

As a boy by the pasture bars!