TOM CARELESS,
Good people all I pray give ear
Unto the tale I tell;
’Tis form’d to gratify your mind,
And to instruct you well.
To caution men of riper years,
And to admonish youth;
Fiction may fill th’ improving page,
And use the voice of truth.
Tom Careless was a merry lad;
(And who will mirth despise?)
But he like many other wits,
More merry was than wise.
Tom was a working carpenter,
Yet while he plied his trade,
His tongue mov’d faster than his hands,
And less was done than said.
He told his tale, he crack’d his joke,
He was a perfect droll;
And of each jovial drinking set,
Was both the life and soul.
On such a character as this,
Some did with envy gaze;
While others wiser, saw much more
To pity than to praise.
For Tom with all his merriment,
That made such mighty rout,
Had taken vice and folly in,
And quite shut wisdom out.
He neither look’d, nor car’d, beyond
The present passing hour!
Alas! now see his sky o’ercast,
And storms begin to lour.
A burning fever seiz’d his frame!
Look how he pants for breath;
And in his vitals feels transfixt
Th’ envenomed dart of death.