I Cannot See The Short, White Curls

I Cannot See The Short, White Curls Upon The Forehead Of An Ox, But What I See Them Dripping With That Poor Thing's Blood, And Hear The Ax; When I See Calves And Lambs, I See Them Led To Death; I See No Bird Or Rabbit Cross The Open Field But What A Sudden Shot Is Heard; A Shout That Tells Me Men Aim True, For Death Or Wound, Doth Chill Me Through.