Tom Bowling.

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.
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 's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned 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 despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed;

For, though his body 's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

CHARLES DIBDIN.

The Dream of Engene Aram.

"Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school;

There were some that ran and some that leapt
Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds
And souls untouched by sin;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,