Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks.

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?

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!