THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.
��'ERE, a fheer hulk lies Poor Tom Bowling,
The Darling of our crew ; No more he'll hear tire tempeil howling,
For death has broach'd him too. His form was of the manlieft beauty,
His heart was kind and foft, Faithful below he did his duty,
And now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were fo rare ; His friends were many and true-hearted,
His Poll was kind and fair. And then he'd fing fo bly the and jolly
Ah ! many's the time and oft ; But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet fhall Poor Tom find pleafant weather,
When he, who all commands, Shall give to call life's crew together,
The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars difpatche-,
Tom's life has vainly doff'd ; For though his body's under hatches,
His foul is gone aloft.
��NOTHING
�� �
