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.

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.

There doesn't seem like there should be an artful way to butcher a cow, but there is, and this is not it.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!