I met him last in Piccadilly;
His bell was faint, his howl was shrilly;
There was no more his lungs about
The force with which he used to shout;
A cry, but not as erst, was heard;—
I knew that “dust ho” was the word,
But all the depth, the soul was gone
As with his bell he “dust ho’d” on.
His hat was still in Dustman’s fashion,
But with a slouch that woo’d compassion;