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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.

Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast-by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?

Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks.

The butcher in his killing clothes.