IX.
How mournful in winter The lowing of kine; How lean-back'd they shiver, How draggled their cover, How their nostrils run over With drippings of brine, So scraggy and crining In the cold frost they pine.
How mournful in winter The lowing of kine; How lean-back'd they shiver, How draggled their cover, How their nostrils run over With drippings of brine, So scraggy and crining In the cold frost they pine.