• I cannot see the short, white curls
    Upon the forehead of an Ox,
    But what I see them dripping with
    That poor thing's blood, and hear the ax;
    When I see calves and lambs, I see
    Them led to death; I see no bird
    Or rabbit cross the open field
    But what a sudden shot is heard;
    A shout that tells me men aim true,
    For death or wound, doth chill me through.