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. Chamber Music. 27. Though I Thy Mithridates Were
2. Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba
3. Chamber Music. 20. In the Dark Pine-Wood
4. Chamber Music. 33. Now, O Now, in This Brown Land
5. Chamber Music. 11. Bid Adieu, Adieu, Adieu

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