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By Charles Dibdin |
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Here a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling |
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The darling of our crew; |
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No more he'll hear the tempest howling |
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For death has broached him to. |
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His form was of the manliest beauty, his heart was kind and soft; |
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Faithful below, Tom did his duty |
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And now he's gone aloft |
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And now he's gone aloft |
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Tom never from his word departed |
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His virtues were so rare: |
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His friends were many and true hearted |
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His Poll was kind and fair; |
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And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly |
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Ah! Many's the time and oft; |
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But mirth is turn'd to melancholy |
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For Tom is gone aloft |
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For Tom is gone aloft |
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Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather |
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When He who all commands |
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Shall give, to call life's crew together |
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The word to pipe all hands: |
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Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches |
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In vain Tom's life hath doff'd |
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For tho' his body's under hatches |
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His soul is gone aloft |
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His soul is gone aloft |
