Thomas Hood

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

For my part getting up seems not so easy
By half as lying.

A man perfect to the finger tips.

A man perfect to the finger tips.

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of read more

She stood breast-high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
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Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home had she none.