Here a sheer hulk lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
For death has broached him to.
Tom's form was of the manliest beauty,
Tom's 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'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 tars and kings dispatches,
In vain Tom's life has doffed,
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.