Thomas Hood

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so read more

'Tis strange how like a very dunce,
Man, with his bumps upon his sconce,
Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he
Has had, till lately, of Phrenology--
A science that by simple dint of
Head-combing he should find a hint of,
When scratching o'er those little pole-hills
The faculties throw up like mole hills.

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones.

Sweet are the little brooks that run
O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,
Singing in soothing tones.

Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun.
Oh! it was pitiful!
read more

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

Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
Till--think of that who find life so sweet!--
She read more

Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
Till--think of that who find life so sweet!--
She hates the smell of roses!

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
read more

It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.