Robert Service, 'El Toro'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

El Toro

Green mountains reared against the sky.
And tranquil as a herd of cows,
With horsemen nonchalantly nigh
I saw a hundred bulls a-browse.
In supple strength and pride they grazed,
And life was simple, sweet and full;
With placid peace their eyes were glazed―
How good to be a bull!

But one outstood beyond the rest,
With inky dewlaps, orange eyes;
High-horned and rampant for the test
Of red revolt and sacrifice.
So from the herd they cut him out,
And following a pilot ox
They harried him with goad and shout
Into a dung-deep box.

Then in that dark and narrow pen
He stood a week of dreary days,
While taunted by down-peering men
He yearned for brother bulls a-graze:
Hoof-loose in God’s green spaciousness,
The purity of hill and plain,
The dewy dawn, the breeze caress . . .
Ah, liberty again!

( A door swung wide ― with horn up-fling )

By Robert Service

Robert Service, 'Matador'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Matador

Unless there is a lot of goring
I always find a bull-fight boring.

Lopez, the famous Mexican,
Was starring in Madrid,
And mobs acclaimed that mighty man
For daring deeds he did.
His tunic braid was primrose gold,
His pants were lily white,
As round the sanded ring he strolled,
A dazzle to the sight.

But haply in a thousand fights
A matador may slip;
With women, wine and hectic nights
His hand may lose its grip.
So as he dealt the lethal blow
The bull lunged out once more,
And Lopez, pride of Mexico
Was mingled with its gore.

A pretty maid from U.S.A.
Was sitting by my side,
And as they bore the man away
Right bitterly she cried.
She sobbed to see a Mexican
Who round the ringside struts,
Be carried forth, a dying man,
A horn-thrust in his guts.

( 'Twas sad to view ― then suddenly )

By Robert Service