Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3813/The Passing of the Cow
[The Soya bean, grown in Japan, Korea and Manchuria, is said to provide a perfect substitute for milk.]
Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe:
All mortal flesh is grass,
Mown down by Time at the appointed hour;
And in the world of speed
The noblest Arab steed
Yields, O Combustion, to thy pent-up power.
On Youth of ardent aim
No more Mazeppa's fame
Or Turpin's feats exert their ancient spell;
Napier and Wolseley stand
No more for war's command,
But only steel and rubber, oil and smell.
Where once men safely strode
Along the open road,
A sinister and stertorous machine.
Exhales its acrid breath
And deals impartial death
To all the dwellers on the village green.
And now, O gentle cow,
Man's foster-mother, thou,
Must tread the fatal path the horse hath trod,
Since scientists have found
That milk and cream abound
Within the compass of an Eastern pod.
No more shall we behold,
As in the days of old,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
Or Mary, mid the foam,
Calling her cattle home,
Across the sands, the perilous sands o' Dee.
Mourn, Alderney, and mourn,
O maiden all forlorn,
The cow with crumpled horn that filled thy pail;
Mourn, damsels, mourn and sigh
Who can no more reply,
"I'm going a milking" to the curious male.
Mourn too, for ye shall feel
The change at every meal,
Ye minions of the hearthrug; be not mute,
Ye Persians, topaz-eyed,
When mistresses provide
This miserable Soya substitute.
In legendary lore
The cow was wont to soar
With Dædalean art above the moon;
But ah! the cardboard cows
That by the railroad browse
To no elopement prompt the modern spoon.
On earth men owned thy sway
From Lapland to Cathay;
In heaven the Milky Way thy might confessed:
Weaklings we saw become
Strong, thanks to thee and rum,
And Punch of all ingredients found milk best.
But, heedless of a debt
He never should forget,
Ungrateful man is planning to replace
By vegetable aid
The kindly service paid
By your mild-natured and sweet-breathing race.
Yet, ere the Soya boom
Achieves the dairy's doom,
And rude bean-crushers oust the homely churn,
Let one unworthy scribe
Salute the vaccine tribe
And lay his wreath upon their funeral urn.