MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL
Reading edition
Dr. Henry A. Cottell, the Louisville booklover, is authority for the statement that Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell, author of When the Cows Come Home, one of the loveliest lyrics in the language, lived at Louisville for some years, and that she wrote her famous poem within the confines of that city. The date of its composition must have been about 1870. Mrs. Mitchell was the wife of a clergyman, but little else is known of her life and literary labors. It is a real pity that her career has not come down to us in detail. She certainly "lodged a note in the ear of time," and firmly fixed her fame with it.
WHEN THE COWS COME HOME
[From The Humbler Poets, edited by S. Thompson (Chicago, 1885)]
With Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, 'Way down the dusty dingle, The cows are coming home; Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, The airy tinklings come and go, Like chimings from some far-off tower, Or patterings of an April shower That makes the daisies grow; Koling, Kolang, Kolinglelingle, 'Way down the darkening dingle, The cows come slowly home; And old-time friends, and twilight plays And starry nights and sunny days, Come trooping up the misty ways, When the cows come home. With Jingle, Jangle, Jingle, Soft sounds that sweetly mingle, The cows are coming home; Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, DeCamp, Red Rose and Gretchen Schnell, Queen Bess and Sylph and Spangled Sue, Across the fields I hear her OO-OO, And clang her silver bell; Goling, Golang, Golinglelingle, With faint far sounds that mingle, The cows come slowly home; And mother-songs of long-gone years, And baby joys, and childish tears, And youthful hopes, and youthful fears, When the cows come home. With Ringle, Rangle, Ringle, By twos and threes and single, The cows are coming home; Through the violet air we see the town, And the summer sun a-slipping down; The maple in the hazel glade Throws down the path a longer shade, And the hills are growing brown; To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleingle, By threes and fours and single, The cows come slowly home. The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, The same sweet June-day rest and calm, The same sweet scent of bud and balm, When the cows come home. With a Tinkle, Tankle, Tinkle, Through fern and periwinkle, The cows are coming home. A-loitering in the checkered stream, Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, Starine, Peach Bloom and Phoebe Phyllis Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies In a drowsy dream; To-link, to-lank, to-linkleinkle, O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle, The cows come slowly home; And up through memory's deep ravine Come the brook's old song—its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen, When the cows come home. With a Klingle, Klangle, Klingle, With a loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle. The cows are coming home; And over there on Morlin hill Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill; The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, And over the poplars Venus shines. And over the silent mill; Ko-link, ko-lang, ko-lingleingle; With a ting-a-ling and jingle, The cows come slowly home; Let down the bars; let in the train Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, For dear old times come back again When the cows come home.