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Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
When he is forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the Devil's price: A dozen times I groaned: the dead Had never groaned but twice!
I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy.
One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly Young, and so fair!
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No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious; Nor study in my sanctum supercilious, To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
Another tumble! That's his precious nose!
My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread.
I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
Straight down the Crooked Lane, And all round the Square.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.
But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart.
Never go to France Unless you know the lingo, If you do, like me, You will repent, by jingo.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence.