Maxioms by Thomas Hood
One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
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.
'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.
Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that read more
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
