Thomas Hood

Whoe'er has gone thro' London street,
Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he read more

Whoe'er has gone thro' London street,
Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps
Gloating upon a sheep's
Or bullock's personals, as if his own;
How he admires his halves
And quarters--and his calves,
As if in truth upon his own legs grown.

But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a read more

But she is vanish'd to her shady home
Under the deep, inscrutable; and there
Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
read more

The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;--
Old age, begin sighing!

At night, to his own dark fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
read more

At night, to his own dark fancies a prey,
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.