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"Sow your wild oats in your youth," so we're always told...

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
Odds and Ends, Other Items Of Interest About Robert


Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (4018 reads)
A year ago my goats were three;


A year ago my goats were three;
    Now I have only one;
But I am eighty as you see:
    My days will soon be done.
My son-in-law has said he'd give
Me only six years to live.

While goats are grave and strangely wise,
    Sheep have no sense at all.
Mirza has knowing in her eyes
    And cometh to my call.
When faggot-bowed for home I jog
She follows faithful like a dog.

Her hair is soft and silky white,
    Her eyes like amber are;
She has been mine from kiddy height,
    My comfort and my care.
I have not left her for a day:
She will not eat if I'm away.

Aye, goats are wise beyond belief.
    She loves me I am sure;
When I am gone she'll pine with grief,
    And though we are so poor,
We've been so happy, she and I,
It seems a pity I must die.

Come, Mirza, we must go home
    And you'll give me sweet milk,
And I with tenderness will comb
    Your fleece to sheen of silk,
And polish up your silver bell. . . .
"No, Son-in-law, she's not to sell!"

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