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.