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 Faithful below he did his duty, But now he’s gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare, His friends were many and true hearted, His Poll was kind and fair. And then he’d sing so blythe and jolly; Ah! many’s the time and oft; But mirth is turn’d to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant 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 dispatches, In vain Tom’s life had doft’d, For tho’ his body’s under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

’Twas on the morn of sweet May-day, When nature painted all things gay, Taught birds to sing and lambs to play, To hail the meadows fair; Young Jockey early in the dawn, Arose and tript it o’er the lawn,