My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall, and not so thick,
As these; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good,
As these that now I see.
What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,
Won't hide it, I'll be bound.
And there's a row of lamps! my eye!