Laird of Logie/The Sailor's Epitaph

The Sailor's Epitaph; or, Jack under the Hatches.

HERE a ſheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
⁠the darling of our crew,
No more he'll hear the tempeſt howling,
⁠for Death hath 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 blithe and jolly,
⁠ah! many 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,
⁠Tom's life has vainly doft,
For though his body's under hatches,
⁠his ſoul has gone aloft.