But he never paleth, he quaintly doth say,
As his meat goes to London on each market day.
But oh! oh! oh! his books do show
Where many a cow of his worst doth go.
Bill Choppers he sits in his little back room,
For a butcher discreet is he:
But oft from his premises comes a queer fume,
He says it is “only his tea.”
But there’s a small yard just behind the loft stair,
And folks say they see some strange carcases there;