One Night When I Went Down Thames' Side, In London Town, A Heap Of Rags Saw I, And Sat Me Down Close By. That Thing Could Shout And Bawl, But Showed No Face At All; When Any Steamer Passed And Blew A Loud Shrill Blast, That Heap Of Rags Would Sit And Make A Sound Like It; When Struck The Clock'S Deep Bell, It Made Those Peals As Well. When Winds Did Moan Around, It Mocked Them With That Sound; When All Was Quiet, It Fell Into A Strange Fit; Would Sigh, And Moan And Roar, It Laughed, And Blessed, And Swore. Yet That Poor Thing, I Know, Had Neither Friend Nor Foe; Its Blessing Or Its Curse Made No One Better Or Worse. I Left It In That Place, The Thing That Showed No Face, Was It A Man That Had Suffered Till He Went Mad? So Many Showers And Not One Rainbow In The Lot; Too Many Bitter Fears To Make A Pearl From Tears.