Poem by James Joyce

Tilly

He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.

The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.

Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!

1. Satire on the Brothers Fay
2. Flood
3. Chamber Music. 28. Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing
4. Chamber Music. 11. Bid Adieu, Adieu, Adieu
5. Chamber Music. 27. Though I Thy Mithridates Were

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