 | Poetry for seamen |  |
4
TOM HARDY.
Tom Hardy was a merry lad,
His pleasant face made others glad,
Like suns that cloudless shine;
Aloft he ran with right good will,
The topsail reefed with ready skill,
And snugly clewed the line.
His pleasant face made others glad,
Like suns that cloudless shine;
Aloft he ran with right good will,
The topsail reefed with ready skill,
And snugly clewed the line.
Obedient still at every call,
And friendly to his messmates all,
For others' pain he felt;
And ever neatest of the crew,
On Sundays, in his jacket blue,
At morning prayers he knelt.
And friendly to his messmates all,
For others' pain he felt;
And ever neatest of the crew,
On Sundays, in his jacket blue,
At morning prayers he knelt.
5
No draught he took to cheer his mind,
The temperance pledge he early signed,
Nor from that promise roved;
In every duty free from blame,
Blow high, blow low, 'twas all the same,
Still happy and beloved.
The temperance pledge he early signed,
Nor from that promise roved;
In every duty free from blame,
Blow high, blow low, 'twas all the same,
Still happy and beloved.
But once, upon a sickly shore,
The burning fever smote him sore,
And when we shipped again,
Still to his sad disease a prey,
He wasted like the snow away,
And all our care was vain.
The burning fever smote him sore,
And when we shipped again,
Still to his sad disease a prey,
He wasted like the snow away,
And all our care was vain.
So, with weak hand, he took the key
From out his chest, and gave it me:
“This to my mother take,
My little all to her I leave,
And tell her not too much to grieve,
For her lost sea-boy's sake.
From out his chest, and gave it me:
“This to my mother take,
My little all to her I leave,
And tell her not too much to grieve,
For her lost sea-boy's sake.
6
Here is the Bible that she gave,
It was my compass on the wave
When prosperous skies were fair;
And now, when darksome billows roll,
It is an anchor to my soul,
That drives away despair.
It was my compass on the wave
When prosperous skies were fair;
And now, when darksome billows roll,
It is an anchor to my soul,
That drives away despair.
Cut from my temples, when I'm dead,
A curling lock of hair, he said,
For my sweet Mary dear:
I know she'll truly mourn for me,
Who slumber in the far, deep sea,
No more her voice to hear.
A curling lock of hair, he said,
For my sweet Mary dear:
I know she'll truly mourn for me,
Who slumber in the far, deep sea,
No more her voice to hear.
And now, my peace with God is made,
So, not of the last foe afraid,
I meet a watery grave;
For near me, with an outstretched hand,
I see my blest Redeemer stand,
My parting soul to save.”
So, not of the last foe afraid,
I meet a watery grave;
For near me, with an outstretched hand,
I see my blest Redeemer stand,
My parting soul to save.”
7
Bright rose the morn, but cold as lead
Lay poor Tom Hardy, pale and dead;
Though yet a smile of joy
Sate on his face, while sad and true
The roughest tar amid the crew
Mourned for the sailor-boy.
Lay poor Tom Hardy, pale and dead;
Though yet a smile of joy
Sate on his face, while sad and true
The roughest tar amid the crew
Mourned for the sailor-boy.
Now, sometimes while my watch I keep
At lonely midnight, on the deep,
When all is calm and clear,
I seem to hear his well-known voice,
“Oh messmate, make your God your choice,
And to His haven steer.”
At lonely midnight, on the deep,
When all is calm and clear,
I seem to hear his well-known voice,
“Oh messmate, make your God your choice,
And to His haven steer.”
| Poetry for seamen | |