Thomas Hood

A leech that will not quit the skin until sated with blood.

A leech that will not quit the skin until sated with blood.

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

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.

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.

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.