As pink and yellow cows walk up and down.

They intersperce themselves amid the grass,

And eat the pale red roses in the hedge.

Marsala is their only drink, it seems,

And after several bucketfuls they sit

And close one eye, and mournfully sing out.

"The red flag" is the first upon their list,

And then it seems, though I could not say why,

An interval must follow, where a cow

Persists in chanting Shakespeare from the stand.

And then to the delight of all the crowd

A buttercup stands up and then sits down.

I stood and watched this sight for half an hour,

And went across to join the milling throng.

I took a seat near to the old oak tree,

And closed the door behind me, lest the wind

Should blow upon my pet anemone.

Enough is said about the concert time,

And all I have to add is – "Up the Cows,

The Cows, the Cows, the Cows, the Cows, the Cows,

They’re running round in circles are the cows.

Three cheers for all the cows in the North Sea,

And may they always live and thrive on tea."