Liza sits upon the milking stool,
Her bent head pressed against the cow;
Between her fingers, deft and cool,
The milk squirts till the pail is full;
An easy job if one knows how.
I’ve tried, but it won’t come;
And Liza only stands and jeers.
“Oh, use your fingers and your thumb !”
I feel like running way back home
To hide my burning face and tears.
The cow is restless, lifts her feet;
Kicks pail and almost spills the lot.
So Liza takes again her seat
And strokes the milk from swollen teat
While I look on, my shame forgot.
And as I’m sitting in a dream
Upon a heap of straw and chaff,
She twists her hand and sends a stream
Into my eyes: I taste the cream
And Liza has a hearty laugh.
Mona’s Herald 9.7.63