While The Billy BoilsSearchLittle grains of rhubarb,Spatula'd with skill,Make the mighty bolusAnd the little pill.
Little pence and half-pence,Hoarded up by stealth,Make the mighty totalOf the miser's wealth
Little trips to Randwick,Taking six to three,Make the out-at-elbowsSeedy swells we see.
Little sprees on oysters,Bottled stout and ale,Lead but to the cloistersOf the gloomy gaol.
Little tracts and tractlets,Scattered here and there,Lead the sinner's footstepsTo the house of prayer.
Little bits of paper,Headed I.O.U.,Ever draw the ChristianCloser to the Jew.
Little chords and octaves,Little flats and sharps,Make the tunes the angelsPlay on golden harps.
Little bouts with broom-sticks,Carving forks and knives,Make the stirring dramaOf our married lives.
Little flakes of soap-suds,Glenfield starch, and blue,Make the saint's white shirt-frontsAnd the sinner's too.
Little tiny insects,Smaller than a flea,Make the coral inlandsIn the southern sea.
Little social falsehoods,Such as "Not at home,"Lead to realms of darknessWhere the wicked roam.
Likewise little cuss wordsSuch as "blast," and "blow,"Quite as much as wuss wordsFill the place below.