This page has been validated.
3
Could I trace back the time, a far distant date,Since my forefathers toil'd in this field; And the farm I now hold on your honour's estate,Is the same that my grandfather till'd.
He, dying, bequeath'd to his son a good name,Which unsullied descended to me;For my child I've preserv'd it, unblemish'd with shame,And it still from a spot shall be free.
THE SAILOR'S EPITAPH.
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,The darling of our crew;No more he'll hear the tempest howling,For death has brought him to.His form was of the manliest beauty,His heart was kind and soft;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.
