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Six Yoke
I sit by the trail in the misty moonlight And see the old bull-teams swing up through the night. Bull-whacker, bull-whacker, your wagon-wheels pass- No creaking of axle, no bending of grass. O moody bull-driver, throw off yoke and chain- Turn out your tired cattle to graze on the plain. They are white, they are roan, they are spotted and red, The shadowy oxen-the ghosts of the dead.