The Autumn Is Old; The

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright And Yellow, Hard And Cold!

There's A Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake With Her Double Thereon.

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

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.