Thomas Hood

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no Salaam;
And dear the beaver read more

The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no Salaam;
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but read more

Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand
Some random bud will meet;
Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find
The daisy at thy feet.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me.

The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me.

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.